Perfect After All: The Fusing Alchemist
by Jaya Mitai
Summary: Present for author Silverfox2702. Direct sequel to Perfect After All. Spoilers through CoS. PM Mustang receives an unusual letter addressed to the late Bradley, and he and Edward Elric uncover a plot worthy of the homunculus Pride. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Don't own Full Metal Alchemist. Making no money. Please don't sue. See Author's Notes as the end of the chapter. Anime-based ONLY. Spoilers through Conqueror of Shamballa.

This is specifically for silverfox2702, who went above and beyond to review one of my previous fics, Perfect After All. This is a direct sequel per her request. It could possibly stand alone, but I would recommend you read Perfect After All prior to this.

And in the spirit of its predecessor, it promises to be a ten-chapter one-shot. I'm not even going to pretend it's going to be short. In fact, it's so involved, it was co-plotted with the talented and soon-to-post-a-wonderful-FMAfic-herself Inkydoo! Two authors worked on this present!

Thank you, Silverfox2702. I hope you like it!

- x -

"Let's review."

A bright and cheerful paper balloon floated delicately just in front of his face, and he consciously relaxed his left eyelid before it could start to twitch. The round, pumpkin-colored ball hovered a moment before losing too much altitude, and the brief gust of warm wind necessary to propel it back into the air brushed at his bangs.

He ignored both the balloon and the reason it was rising and falling so gracefully directly in front of him.

"The term heat, in physics, refers not to temperature but to the energy that is generated and collected in matter through the movement of its molecules, atoms, and smaller particles. When we refer to the 'state' of matter in physics, we are referring to a collection of variables that are fixed at that particular point in time. For the purposes of this course, those variables will consist of pressure, volume, and temperature."

A brilliant crimson balloon, slightly larger than the orange one, was swept across the room to join it.

"The four laws of gas are written on the blackboard behind me. Memorize these laws. The first three will become known as the Combined Gas Law as this class proceeds."

The crimson balloon was now rising much faster than its orange counterpart, and Professor Edward Elric relented, gesturing at the two 'practical' gas models they had been using.

"As demonstrated previously, if air pressure remains constant, the volume of a given mass of a gas increases or decreases by the same factor as its temperature increases or decreases. Once again, heat and temperature are _not_ interchangeable in this law."

There was more scribbling – he wasn't sure the alchemists were ever going to grasp the idea that there were more energies at work on a given group of molecules than could be easily detected with alchemy.

"Because the red balloon has a larger volume of gas, in this case . . ." With a frown, he glanced to his left, where a familiar figure leaned against the wall, bright white gloves at odds with his dark uniform.

"Nitrogen."

"-it is able to exert more pressure on the paper, thus it rises higher than its orange counterpart of the same gas at the same temperature and pressure."

He glanced out over the assembled physicists and alchemists, waiting until he had most of their eyes before continuing.

"Are there any questions?"

There was a good deal of murmuring; those that had taken classes from him before knew that signaled the end of the lecture. If anyone did have questions, rather than include the entire class in the discussion, he would speak to them one on one, and anyone that wanted to stay to hear the explanation was welcome to.

But there didn't seem to be any questions today.

He waited a few more beats before turning back to the lectern, sliding the unopened folder marked "Basic Thermodynamics of Atmospheric Gases" from its place and tucking it under his arm. Utterly ignoring the balloons that were descending rapidly towards him, he headed to his left. When another gust of warm wind blew the red balloon directly into contact with his face, Edward reached out with his faux automail hand and caught the delicate paper, crushing it effortlessly.

The man he was stalking towards tsked, that irritating half-smile still on his face.

Bastard.

When they were close enough for quiet conversation, Edward bared his teeth in greeting. "Did you enjoy the lecture, Prime Minister?"

He received a head tilt in response. "Your class certainly seemed to."

Ed did not salute his superior officer, because technically he wasn't anymore, and shaking his hand was completely out of the question. Every time you shook the hand of someone wearing ignition cloth, your hand stunk of match heads for hours. Apparently Mustang's gloves were lined, because he had to admit the smell never lingered around the Prime Minister, but then again, this was probably the first time in a week he'd bothered to put them on.

It wasn't as though alchemy was part of Mustang's day to day activities anymore.

Which made his control over the two balloons, paper no less, all the more impressive.

Having no other options for an appropriate demonstration of respect, he settled for a glare. "Your assistance was unnecessary."

Mustang's tone was mild. "Weren't the majority of the people in the room State Alchemists? They looked like they'd never seen an alchemic reaction in their lives."

Ed didn't let his expression shift. "They're here to learn physics."

"They're here to learn how physics relates to alchemy," Mustang corrected, and Ed rolled his neck slightly in irritation. He'd given up his traditional uniform about two weeks after he officially 'returned' to active duty as a State Alchemist, and was dressed much more appropriately for an academic environment.

An academic environment that wasn't usually artificially heated with alchemy to demonstrate thermodynamics. It was bordering on uncomfortably hot in the lecture hall, and he knew any other day it would have resulted in inattentiveness and drowsiness.

His students usually knew better than to outright sleep in his lectures, but occasionally the physicists would slip up. The majority of the alchemists had trained themselves out of it long before the Academy had been set up. It was inadvisable to sleep around other alchemists period, let alone the famous Edward Elric. The physicists, on the other hand, weren't accustomed to the unique and complex practical jokes the alchemic community had enjoyed for decades, and were now engaged in an under-the-table war that was probably teaching them as much about each other's science as the lectures.

But today practical jokes didn't explain the attentiveness of the class throughout the two hours. Mustang was right; even the alchemists had perked up as soon as they'd seen transmutation.

Not that this was unexpected. It was simply unnecessary, plain and simple. The Prime Minister's voluntary 'demonstration' had been as much for Ed's benefit as the classes' and he knew it.

He didn't care.

Unnecessary transmutation was what it was. He wasn't going to use party tricks to keep his class entertained.

Particularly not when he knew what those party tricks cost.

Mustang was letting his mild expression relax into something a little more stern. "The physicists in attendance today were here to see how alchemists comprehend physics. Not relating the material to alchemy-"

"Anyone at a State level already grasps basic physics, whether they know it or not," Ed snapped. "They're not children. They don't need bright colors and pretty pictures."

"Can't you two ever have a pleasant discussion?"

Edward didn't take his eyes off Mustang as the man's expression shifted again, this time into a very genuine smile. After a moment, the younger alchemist received a playful elbow in the side, and he relented, dropping the subject with an irritated shake of his head.

"I don't want to hear it from you," Mustang informed the intruder loftily. "You know what I'm dealing with."

Alphonse Elric chuckled. "I'd advise you it's a losing battle, but you're just as stubborn."

"I concur," a fourth voice noted a bit dryly, and Ed glanced past his brother to see that the colonel had also joined them.

She had to be bored out of her mind, watching this lunatic float pieces of paper around a classroom for two hours.

It had been five long months since Mustang's inauguration, but she'd shown no sign of relaxing the fairly strict security requirements she'd instituted the moment she'd become his chief of security. Unfortunately, that meant she often accompanied him personally when he decided to deviate from his set schedule and hassle unsuspecting professors.

He was considering sending her a condolence card, but her sense of humor had sharpened somewhat since he and Al had been gone, and he hadn't quite felt out their new relationship yet.

She treated him very much like she treated Breda and Havoc, which was almost as strange as the way Aunt Pinako treated him. It meant he actually had less slack with her, not more, which he found exceptionally weird, since he usually behaved better than they did and required less looking after.

"Good class," Al congratulated exaggeratedly into his ear, ignoring the growl and dodging the half-hearted swipe he threw. "You're done for the day, right?"

"Yeah." Ed just nodded as Hawkeye caught his eye. She then rather unceremoniously stepped several yards back, glaring commandingly when Roy made no move to follow her. She sort of treated Mustang the same way she treated Breda and Havoc, too, come to think of it. "Office hours, but that's it."

"After my one o'clock, I'm going to head downtown." Al stepped fully in front of him as Mustang took the hint and followed Hawkeye. "I've got a few hours of work left on Cobbs Road."

Ed sobered a bit. It had taken Al the better part of two weeks to restore that section of the city; he wouldn't ask for help, though he graciously accepted it if offered. He and Louis Armstrong had therefore been bonding over the last few months, and Ed was glad to let him. The work took a toll on Al, but gave him something in return. Closure, maybe. He'd silently assist Al when he kept excessive hours and the strain started to show, but otherwise left it to his brother.

Al would get more out of his work if he completed it on his own. Most of the restoration work was now no longer necessary; no one's lives or livelihoods were in the balance anymore. Too much time had passed. And technically it was work that could be done without transmutation.

But it was work Al could never complete without alchemy. Not in his lifetime.

And that made it something that had to be done with alchemy. That made it worth the cost.

"And we've been invited to dinner," Al added, almost as an afterthought. "Fletcher asked us to come take a look at something after I was finished tonight."

Something. That was specific. "Did he say what?"

Al shook his head, smiling as one of the students behind Ed caught his eye. "Probably another theory on stabilizing their alchemic amplifier."

Now that was interesting. They were both keeping well abreast of all Philosopher Stone-like activity in the alchemic community, and the Tringums were well aware of that and actively sharing their research. They hadn't given up on transmuting false Stones to aid in healing alchemy, even if those Stones weren't based on red water or human lives. And with border unrest still present despite five long months of Mustang not backing down –

Ed rubbed the bridge of his nose vigorously. "Great. We can use it when we get sent to the front lines."

"Nii-san." It was reproachful.

He sighed. It hadn't been deserved; Mustang had made no move to uproot the suddenly condensed State Alchemists anywhere else in the country. Nor had he said anything about it in the House sessions. Edward glared at the man, not surprised to see that Mustang was oblivious, accepting a battered letter from the colonel.

Roy Mustang seemed genuinely interested in furthering work between physics and alchemy, and getting the alchemists and physicists educated as quickly as possible. He'd also, ignoring that lecture, been keeping his figurative fingers out of the pot. There'd been no requirements or demands passed down regarding curriculum, hours, or tests. He'd approved all costs without complaint, even going to bat for them with Parliament to justify the new building.

Which was large, in the style of the Parliament building, and constructed in about three days with the help of Armstrong's extended family and a few very surprised stonecutters.

The Amestris Academy of the Sciences was into its third month, and classes seemed to be going well. Most of the men and women that had volunteered for the first classes were a pretty open-minded bunch, and the scientists were getting along very well. With a few spectacular exceptions.

Which could have been another reason the Fletchers were concentrating on alchemic amplifiers, come to think of it. Physicists were able to easily inflict as much damage as an alchemist, theirs just had to be a bit more premeditated.

Which usually made it a bit less innocent, or easy to justify. They were clearly feeling like the underdogs.

"I know," he waved off his brother's half-hearted glare. "It's hot."

"He has a point, you know," Al told him, still serious. "It's not a waste if it helps someone."

"I don't criticize your teaching methods," he responded, a bit more forcefully than he really meant to. Al's easy headshake demonstrated that his younger brother hadn't taken it personally, but he still cursed, quietly. A glance told him Mustang was already more than halfway down the lecture hall aisle, apparently off on more important business, and he sighed. "Just drop it, Al."

"For now," he agreed, studying the emptying hall. "I'll call you before I head to their apartment."

"Thanks." He still felt vaguely guilty about snapping, but Al was playing it off, and it was easier to just let him. It wasn't the first time they'd had this argument, after all.

It was just the first time he felt like Mustang was pushing the point.

None of the students had had either the time or the inclination to stay when they'd seen him talking with the Prime Minister, and Ed expected his office hours would probably be quiet as well. Which was fine; it was bound to be cooler in his office than the hall, and he had his own texts to worry about. He'd edited about two-thirds of the notes Mustang had had published, and gotten the previous versions yanked from Central and East's libraries.

And to his credit, the man had done a pretty good job of further encoding anything remotely useful towards new Stone creation.

But there were a lot of things they'd discovered that didn't need to be published for the world to see. Red water, for one. He was half-convinced that if Franklin ever figured out the spring had been in Xenotime, he'd dig up the mountain in an effort to find it.

Ed trudged down the halls, noting that most of the doors were closed. Mustang himself had picked the physics professors, and he'd done a pretty good job of selecting men that could properly explain physics to alchemists. He'd sat in on all of their classes, at one point or another, determining the same thing that the physicists had been in his – how someone of one science grasped another.

Rockets were a good example.

He was walking on autopilot, and very nearly didn't notice them. They were at the end of the hallway, and while it wasn't unusual to see the bright blue of the Amestris army, since more than half the student body wore it, the much darker black of the Prime Minister stood out quite sorely. He contemplated continuing down the hall to give Mustang a hard time, but the colonel was herding his other two bodyguards into the main office, and the man was wandering towards the lavatory.

He wasn't spoiling for a fight _that_ badly.

Edward had fully entered his office before his brain noted that the Prime Minister had actually been heading through one door too far.

The stairwell.

Confused, Edward stuck his head back into the hall.

The colonel was already out of sight, and he knew she hadn't had the time to cross the hall to follow him.

He hadn't seen her allow him to go anywhere outside of the HQ unescorted in five months.

On a whim, he tossed the folder he was carrying onto his desk and pulled his office door closed again. There was no reason to lock it; again, half the student body could disable the lock, and the other half could transmute a new door. He half-jogged down the hallway, hitting the stairwell double-doors about half a minute after Mustang had. Ed entered the stairwell quietly, glancing down the center, through the banister.

He didn't see any activity. And there were only two floors down. He'd either gone outside, or into the basement.

Edward hurried down the first flight, peering out the large glass panels of the back entrance. Sure enough, one of the dark Parliament vehicles was just pulling away from the curb, and as it had been parked at the curb, it was likely to be Mustang's. A glance through the side windows showed only one figure, but the angle and reflection of light made it too difficult to make out a specific face.

Where would Mustang be driving to that he wouldn't need escorts? Where would Riza let him go?

Without a second thought Ed pushed through the doors, heading not after the car but to the small faculty lot just behind the main building.

- x -

It reminded him of Maes, in a way.

Though if it had been Hughes, he probably wouldn't have noticed until the damage was done.

He sighed, slouching further into the recess between the faux marble building frontage and its indented, deep brick walls. It didn't provide much of a shadow, but considering the printing press was gilded in the same white stone as the rest of the industry buildings on the block, the contrast would be enough to hide him temporarily.

And temporarily was all he needed. At this point he knew there was no danger.

He just wanted the advantage of surprise.

It didn't take Edward Elric long to determine that his car had swung into the alley; he heard the squeal of the tires before the shadow of the hood crossed the sidewalk to his right. Somewhere along his journey Edward had learned how to drive halfway decently. The car pulled smoothly into the very center of the aisle between the buildings, effectively preventing Roy's car, parked several yards away, from trying to back out.

The driver's side window was easily within touching distance, and the Prime Minister of Amestris reached out, rapping his knuckles sharply on the glass.

He was rewarded with a single, surprised golden eye, and the car jerked to a halt.

Clearly he'd startled the young man, but rather than gape comically at him, that single eye just continued to regard him. While he'd finally ditched his trademark outfits for real clothing, his hair had remained very much the same. His bangs were still overgrown, and framed his face. On anyone else, it would appear they were the curtain between him and the world, and he used them as a shield.

That was certainly what they'd been for when he'd been a child.

The window rolled down smoothly; Mustang didn't even see Ed's shoulder shifting as he manually cranked it down. The elder Elric finally turned fully to face him, allowing the car to idle and resting his left arm comfortably in the windowframe.

"So what was in the letter?"

Roy considered hiding his smile, then discarded the idea. Hawkeye hadn't made a production of giving it to him, but she hadn't hidden it, either. She'd probably figured either would have attracted his attention more than what she had done.

And at the time she'd handed it to him, she hadn't known the contents. Just the address.

The current government didn't get very many letters addressed to the Fuhrer Bradley anymore.

Even fewer of them had alchemic markings scrawled on the back of them.

"I believe you're to be having office hours at this time."

Ed didn't even blink.

Mustang eyed him a moment longer, considering his options. She'd read it over his shoulder, and he could expect her to have gathered the appropriate officers and followed him within the hour. Therefore he didn't need the backup, and even if he had wanted to take another alchemist with him, an Elric would have been his very last choice.

But then again, considering how fond Edward seemed to be of alchemy in any form these days –

Maybe it would help to drive the point home.

In any case, there was little temptation for him to use it, if that was indeed what 'it' was.

"Return to the academy, Fullmetal. You're not needed here."

Unsurprisingly, Edward ignored the command. "When did you realize I was following you?"

Rather disconcertingly, the truth was that he was halfway across town before he realized who was driving. Because the Elrics held such high positions in the Academy, they had a Parliament vehicle lent them on a semi-permanent basis. He hadn't looked twice at the familiar model behind him, simply because he was so accustomed to seeing them in traffic around him. Only when he had left the capitol area had it caught his attention as being out of place.

Which didn't say much about his observational powers. He was starting to rely on Hawkeye a little too heavily.

Then again, even if Edward had been an enemy, it was unlikely he would have made a move until he was further out of the city.

"Immediately," he lied. "Are you planning on disobeying a direct order from your Prime Minister?"

Ed gave him an easy grin. "I'm trying to get on Hawkeye's good side. Besides, there are very few reasons you'd leave her behind."

Roy Mustang leaned up off the brick wall, cocking his head slightly to the side. Sometimes the Elrics were a little too perceptive for their own good.

"Hawkeye's dealt with alchemists before," he reminded the Fullmetal Alchemist.

The young man's mouth turned upward slightly in memory. "She's dealt with Scar before."

Trust him to bring _that_ up. "That should have been your first indication I did not wish company."

"It was my first indication that you think wherever you're going is too dangerous for her." Edward leaned back, removing his arm from the windowframe. "Besides, no one's going to come to my office hours this afternoon. You made sure of that."

Talking Edward out of accompanying him was out of the question. He could sabotage Ed's car and drive out the opposite end of the alley, but if he brought alchemy into play he was asking for like retaliation. Arguing was wasting time.

Perhaps his hesitance was nothing more than a nagging, past instinct to keep the Elrics –

Keep them safe. Throwing them a Stone was begging for trouble.

"Point taken," he conceded with a subtle nod. "Is the life of an academic too boring for you, then? For someone so vocally opposed to putting alchemists on the front lines you seem willing enough to approach the lion's den."

The easy grin slipped immediately into something decidedly . . . un-Edward-like. "A place too dangerous for Colonel Hawkeye is too dangerous for a Prime Minister, Flame Alchemist or not."

It would have been a very touching gesture if it had been stated in a tone that conveyed the slightest bit of concern for his welfare. As it sounded, it was more an observation of stupidity. "Too dangerous for a seasoned colonel, yet you expect me to trust my back to an alchemist that hasn't transmuted in combat since he was eighteen? You're one to lecture, Fullmetal. Then again," he continued thoughtfully, "that's all you've been doing lately, so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised."

A small scowl, nothing more. "Using lives to save lives seems like equivalent trade to me."

Mustang glanced towards the street as he caught a pedestrian in his peripheral vision. One thing was certain, he couldn't stand here much longer without arousing suspicion. If Edward was serious enough to control his temper, he was sufficiently vested. "Fortunately we'll have no need to test that resolve," he replied, circling the car. He climbed into the passenger's seat without another word, removing his hat and tossing it into the backseat.

Edward said nothing as he put the car into reverse, waiting for a break in the light traffic before backing out into the street.

"I'm surprised you'd let me drive."

Mustang snorted quietly. "I can't recall a time I saw Bradley without a driver."

Ah. There was the comical look.

Edward recovered himself fairly well. "Where are we going?"

"Just west of Central is a town called Mount Vesper. Do you know it?"

Ed glanced in the rearview mirror before changing lanes. "Al and I used to pass through the station there on our way into Central from Creta."

Mustang raised an eyebrow but didn't inquire. That the Elrics had traveled outside of their country on their quest for the Stone shouldn't have surprised him. And as a State Alchemist, Edward had had his own funds. Outside of his reports, which had left out much of his adventures, they'd really only had Hughes' men, and later no one, keeping an eye on those kids.

Edward didn't say anything else, and once they were out of Central proper Mustang reached into his jacket, withdrawing the weathered envelope. It was made of old parchment, something he would have expected to see his sensei's notes written upon, and it was clear the piece of paper had been used as scratch material on more than one occasion. It felt very stiff through his ignition gloves, and the letter he withdrew even more so.

He assumed, therefore, that he was dealing with an old alchemist indeed.

Mustang offered Ed the letter, and he accepted it, shaking it out and holding it level with the steering wheel so he could read and drive simultaneously. It didn't take him long, and he glanced at Mustang inquiringly.

Roy jerked his chin at the letter. "Turn it over."

Ed did so, and Mustang reached for the wheel to correct their sudden wandering into the shoulder of the road. It was obvious Fullmetal knew immediately what he was looking at.

"Six corners . . ."

"I've seen like circles in Hohenheim's notes." Mustang surrendered the wheel back to Edward as the younger man manipulated the letter closed, fingering the paper curiously with his left hand. "And it's related but not completely similar to Marcoh's."

"Human transmutation . . . you think this is about a Philosopher's Stone, don't you." It wasn't a question.

Mustang shrugged, accepting the letter as Edward handed it back to him. "I can't think of anything else Bradley would have had an alchemist working on."

- x -

"We can't do that!" It was hushed and spoken between lips that barely moved.

"We have to do something. She's been in there for fifteen minutes."

"You've never had a girlfriend, have you."

"What's that supposed to mean? You think she's in there _primping_?"

" . . . no. I don't think the colonel knows how to do that. Look, I'm just saying, they have the same problems we do."

A derisive noise, equally soft. "I'm telling you, that sound we heard was yakking."

Both men fell silent as one of the office administrative assistants approached them. She glanced curiously at them, as though surprised to see which door it was they were flanking, but she didn't speak, and she didn't slow down. Once she was several yards away, the first began again.

"We should have asked her."

"I'm sorry, miss, our superior officer has been in the bathroom too long, can you please check on her?"

"Why not?"

"Don't be ridiculous. This is the colonel we're talking about. It's not like she'd care if one of us went in there, and besides, no one else has entered or left. It isn't like anyone else is in there."

" . . . you don't suppose she's ditched us, do you?"

"As in, crawled out the window?"

"Well, supposedly Mustang was hitting the head, too, and if he is, he's been in there longer than she has."

" . . . you don't think –"

"All I'm saying is, do you want to interrupt that?"

The two men exchanged a glance. Normally they would have been flanking the men's lavatory, considering that was where the Prime Minister was supposed to be, but she'd called them away to discuss personnel changes before turning pale and ducking in without a word. It wouldn't be long until the next class period ended, and when that happened, the halls would be flooded with alchemists and physicists, some as young as fifteen. There was no doubt if the women's room started getting more traffic, their presence inside would certainly not be appreciated. And they had heard a suspect noise, but of course as gentlemen they were doing their best to ignore anything that was going on behind the closed door.

The second speaker finally rolled his eyes. They were soldiers before gentlemen, after all. And he was certain he'd heard the sound of retching. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, and turned on his heel, knocking forcefully on the door.

"Colonel!" he called out clearly.

The pine door swung gently from the force of his strikes, but otherwise there was no response.

"Colonel Hawkeye!"

Nothing. Not so much as the sound of running water.

He glanced at his partner before he pushed the door open. The women's privy looked very much like the men's, save the row of urinals on the wall. To his right was a row of sinks, and to the left a series of stalls in a soothing light blue. Every one of the doors was slightly ajar.

At the end of the room, there was a window large enough for a person to enter or exit through. It was closed.

"Colonel?"

The room was silent.

More concerned, he stepped through the doorway, releasing the snap on his firearm as he did so. The motion attracted his partner, who stood in the doorway to prevent the door from swinging closed.

"Colonel Hawkeye, are you in here?"

He moved quickly but carefully past the stalls, pushing each door open enough to see the head before continuing to the next. The third stall was empty, but as its door opened he could see the floor of the next – and a dark blue that didn't belong there.

"Colonel!"

He shoved open the door, slamming it into the stall wall before crouching beside her. The colonel was motionless, curled around the toilet on her left side. He'd been right about the retching; there was vomit in the toilet and on the seat as well.

"Colonel."

She'd collapsed almost behind the toilet, and he grabbed the shoulder of her uniform, dragging her upright.

She was clearly unconscious, and far more pale than she'd been when she'd ducked into the room. Her lips were tinged with blue, her face a delicate shade of gray.

It was about that time he began to question whether she was still breathing.

"Jonathan!"

He heard his partner enter as he scooped up the colonel. She was heavier than she looked, and offered him no resistance as he tried to gather her up in his arms.

"Find the Prime Minister! Now!"

Someone who could have gotten to Hawkeye could have gotten to him as well.

His partner sprinted out of the bathroom, and he soon followed, shifting the colonel in his arms to get a better hold on her. The office assistant that had passed them before was now standing outside the main office door, apparently attracted by all the shouts, and this time he stared right at her.

"Call for a doctor!"

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Well, this looks exciting, hmm? Not much to say, other than it has at least six more parts, and I intend to post one part a day until this coming Friday, when the rest of the fic shall be posted, however longer that it. As usual, I have looked through and caught what typos were to be caught, but I am certain to have missed some, and I apologize in advance! This fic isn't intended to fix anything, it's purely based on the prompts I was given, which were "Roy and Ed working together." Expect no great revelations, just your everyday adventure fic.

After all, I already fixed everything in the last one-shot, remember? ; )


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer in previous chapter. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

A Stone.

A Philosopher's Stone.

Another one.

The idea of it rattled around inside his skull, as if looking for a way out. Who could have so quietly transmuted one? It took two dead armies to make the last one, most of one of them transmuted simultaneously. It would have taken more than that circle full of prisoners to catalyze the reaction with the incomplete Stone in Laboratory Five.

No one could transmute a Philosopher's Stone inside a cottage.

The house was really not much bigger than a standard village cottage, and pretty non-descript at that. It was fairly old, from what he could see, solidly built of the same rock that made up the surrounding hills and the slightly elevated, jagged rock peak that had given the town its name.

Not much of a mountain, but considering it had cropped up in the middle of what was otherwise a fairly flat plain, he supposed it was impressive enough to warrant the name.

Mount Vesper.

Vesper meant evening star. They'd heard a story on the train as they'd passed through the station there, that long ago, before Amestris was a nation, a man would sit atop the rocky peak with a fully built but unlit pyre beside him. If Creta had sent an army across the plain, he could spot them long before they arrived, and light the pyre. The light and smoke could be seen easily from the city that had fallen below Central, and it served as a sort of lighthouse, warning of impending attack.

Not that it had warned them of the dangers of a single alchemist.

Not that it would warn them if there was another on the way.

After all, Central was the only thing around that held the number of people necessary to transmute a Philosopher's Stone.

It was hard to believe that the Homunculus Pride would have located an alchemist to transmute a Stone that the other Homunculi had not paid any attention to. He couldn't recall Lust or Envy talking of any alchemists older than Tim Marcoh, the Crystal Alchemist. They had never mentioned any others working towards a Stone, never tried to manipulate him into working with them.

That alone made him think that somehow Mustang's assumption was wrong. That while this may well have been a plan of Bradley's, it wasn't dealing with a Stone. It was something else. Something useful, like another alchemic amplifier. Possibly even one not related to red water, like the Tringums were working on. Unfortunately, the note didn't really give them much in the way of information.

_Fuehrer,_

_I hope the many moons that have passed since our last meeting find you well. I have tailored a substance to your specifications. Please bring the payment when you come to collect. Anyone included bears their own risk._

The short scrawl was in a very elegant hand, almost calligraphy. He'd read many volumes written in that style, though most of them had been over a hundred years old. The paper itself was thick, almost like fabric, and stained by time, wax, and spilled ink. Two-thirds of a 'classic' human transmutation circle had been hastily scribbled on the back at some point.

That was it. The envelope had been addressed correctly if the recipient's name was ignored, and whoever had sent it had been kind enough to put a return address on the missive.

It was obviously the last sentence, possibly more than the circle, that was troubling Mustang. It was likely the reason he'd decided to scout ahead, and why he'd attempted to go alone. He'd indicated in the car that he expected Hawkeye, Havoc, Breda, and Falman to be along within the hour, which made his actions slightly less stupid. Edward still considered the move irresponsible.

Going alone to meet an alchemist that might or might not have an alchemic amplifier of some kind at his disposal? What did Mustang think was going to happen when the alchemist realized the man that was to pay him was long dead, and his killer had appeared instead?

The classroom had proved that Mustang's skills hadn't deteriorated with disuse, but floating balloons for sport was not the same as fighting for your life. If Mustang disappeared the same way Bradley had, Central would fall into an uproar the likes of which had never been seen. People were just starting to have some confidence in the peace Amestris had been enjoying since his inauguration, and disturbing things now would just make it twice as hard to get the people to trust in that again.

And he knew damn well, from the five months Mustang had been leading Parliament, that the older man kept these things in the back of his mind every time he opened his mouth, every time he grasped a visiting dignitary's hand, every time he so much as looked at another human being. Which meant that he felt hiding a possible Philosopher's Stone was more important than his own life.

Unfortunately, he was probably right. Fear of his military knowledge kept their neighbors at bay; the Prime Minister was a decorated and talented military strategist, as Bradley had been before him. Fear of his alchemy came in a very distant second. But the idea of hostile Amestris being led by an alchemist bearing a Stone . . . their neighbors would overlook a thousand years of discord to form a joint military invasion. They couldn't create a more welcoming atmosphere for group cooperation against them if they tried.

But why go himself? Even if he didn't trust Armstrong or the Tringums with a possible Stone, why not just pull him and Al out of classes for a week and sent them?

Ed was afraid the answer to that question wasn't as readily apparent as the others.

He let his car door close, watching Mustang studying their destination. Almost like he was analyzing a battlefield the afternoon before the opposing army would arrive. His uniform was unrelated to the previous Fuehrer's, Parliament had made sure of that. They both had dark hair and the eyepatch, though Mustang's covered more than merely his eye. Bradley had been taller, and more muscular, while the Prime Minister's frame was a little narrower. From a distance it might be possible to confuse the two, but the moment they were within speaking distance of the message's author, it was going to be painfully obvious Mustang wasn't Pride.

"What do you make of that, Fullmetal?"

Ed circled the car, following Roy's gaze to the roof of the two-story cottage. It seemed like any other, though the shingles seemed fairly new and not in the old style. So it had been re-roofed recently, indicating someone still lived there. A large, grey stone chimney was putting forth obvious heat, making the sky behind it shimmer, but not a particularly large amount of soot -

That chimney was huge, actually. In comparison with the rest of the house, almost ridiculously so. Either the fireplace was inordinately large, or –

Or it was used as a vent for something else.

Or the house was bigger than it appeared.

Considering it was supposed to be the home of an alchemist that had transmuted a Philosopher's Stone, he was going to bet on all three. He could always just slightly transmute the ground beneath him to get a feel for the foundation of the house, but if they were dealing with another alchemist, it would probably be noticed.

"Venting for an underground laboratory?"

Mustang studied it a moment longer, then started forward. "Follow my lead. Do not speak unless spoken to."

Edward resisted the urge to make a face, following at an acceptable distance as Mustang walked calmly towards the front door. There was no doubt they'd already been observed; thick curtains choked the small windows of the cottage, but they'd been twitching almost as animatedly as an angry cat's tail. And the note had made it clear the author wanted to discourage an entourage. However, Roy was right; Bradley had rarely been without a driver. It shouldn't seem amiss that any important government official would have a retainer or butler. Considering his teaching clothes didn't have a single alchemic symbol displayed, despite his odd dress he could probably pass for an attendant of some kind.

By the time Mustang had mounted the four stairs to the rounded front door it opened as if by magic. A sliver of face peered around it, and it was a good deal younger than Edward had been expecting. He would guess the man was no older than his mid-twenties, with dark, unkempt hair that hung lank in his face. Rather than staring at them directly, his hazel eyes darted around them, finally settling on the Prime Minister's shoes.

Mustang regarded him, but when the man said nothing, he simply walked inside.

Edward took the stairs two at a time as the door began to close behind Mustang. He caught it with his right foot by stepping into the doorjamb, and received a positively scathing glare for his troubles. The second he met the man's eyes their 'host' dropped his, preferring to stare again at the ground. He kept the half-open door between himself and Edward until Ed had fully entered the odd, round lobby, and Ed kept him in his peripheral vision as the man shook his head, almost to himself, and meticulously closed the door.

That task done, still avoiding their direct gazes, he circled them, keeping almost pressed against the rounded walls before proceeding down the hallway that lay directly in front of him.

Once he had the strange man in direct line of sight Edward relaxed slightly, taking a look around the dimly lit cottage. His observations outside been right; the house was old. The floors were a thick, dark wood paneling that hadn't been in style for at least the last fifty years. The furniture in the two rooms adjoining the round receiving hall was antique, and reminded him of some of the old stuff Hohenheim had kept in the basement.

To his relief, there were no suits of armor in sight.

The few small windows visible from the outside were blanketed in excessively heavy curtains, allowing in almost no natural light, and it didn't appear that any electricity was in use at all. Gas flames flickered in their wallholders, the plaster walls badly yellowed in a column that ended with deep black soot at the joint of the wall and ceiling. The walls that were covered in paper had once been a cheery non-metallic gold, but they too had discolored with age.

Despite the condition of what he could see, the house didn't seem to have a musty or closed-up odor.

Their young host was slinking over to a large, dark wooden door that seemed to match the stain of the floor, and without ceremony or word he pulled it open, ducking behind it so that he had confined himself into the corner, with the door between him and them.

As though frightened of them.

Edward would have been inclined to give him a smile of encouragement if the memory of that glare wasn't still fresh in his mind. He was either neurotic, or unbelievably shy. Neither lent themselves to alchemy, where an alchemist had to have the courage to start a reaction and the confidence to control it.

So whoever had sent Mustang the letter obviously had retainers of his own.

Mustang accepted the abrupt invitation, passing through the doorway and down a staircase that turned every half-story at a sharp forty-five degree angle. Edward was half afraid the young man was going to try to slam this door in his face too, but instead, he waited until they'd reached the first landing before daring to follow them down. He kept at least half a story between them the entire distance, which ended up being several stories.

On what Ed counted as the sixth landing the stairs opened into a very large . . . cavern. Definitely an underground lab, and an old one indeed. The walls and floors had been smoothed, of course, and there was no doubt the structure had been created with alchemy. There was no place the stone could have gone; the channel that the stairway took was too narrow for such construction.

Mustang strode forward, allowing Edward room to fully enter the room. Like a good retainer, he remained behind the Prime Minister, but he could still see the vast majority of the chamber.

It was exactly what one would expect of an alchemist's laboratory. The walls had been modeled into bookcases when the area had been transmuted, and every shelf was a confused jumble of bound books, stacks of parchment, jars, vials, and rusting metal tools. Some glass held what looked like paintbrushes, while still others were the homes of startlingly white animal bones. A few of the skulls were recognizable, but the others were either animals he'd never before encountered, or the remains of chimeras.

The floors were covered in discarded papers and half-drawn transmutation circles, and there were at least a dozen drawing sticks leaning against available solid surfaces, pieces of chalk attached to one end. Firelight gleamed from a series of what appeared to be natural gas chandeliers, lighting the room surprisingly well.

One entire wall had been solely dedicated to large glass jars. Powders and liquids of every color lay inside, and from their color and texture Edward could identify many of them. They were all elements. Carbon. Sodium, soaking in mineral oils to prevent an unstable reaction. Fluoride. Lithium. Mercury.

The centerpiece of the chamber seemed to be an extremely large, circular hole surrounded by a stone ring about knee high. Edward initially took for a well until he realized it was also generating a significant amount of heat; as he approached he could feel the warmth on his face. Above it loomed a huge copper hood, that narrowed as it approached the ceiling.

And probably lead to the chimney above.

A wheeled cart to its right held a pile of faded rags, and beside that sat a small table, of light wood. It stood out sorely as the only thing out of place in the stony lab.

Their quiet, precipitous guide waited impatiently for them to enter the room fully, and as soon as he could safely scoot past Edward without brushing up against him he half-ran into a side chamber. Mustang watched him go, then strode unhurriedly to the nearest table and picked up a few pieces of paper, looking them over. Edward remained near the stairwell, standing with his back against one of the few solid walls not bearing embedded shelves.

And that was when the pile of rags started to speak.

"Why Bradley, did you bring me a gift?"

Mustang continued perusing the documents he'd picked up for several more seconds, obviously only feigning interest in them, before glancing at the – person, obviously, beneath the stone-colored, rumpled cloth. "That would depend on whether I get what I came for."

Edward shifted slightly to peer around Mustang, giving the wheeled cart a second look. It was actually more like an extremely low-backed wheelchair, now that he was studying it. He'd seen old medical equipment reminiscent of it during his stay in Germany. The form that perched in the flat wooden seat was ridiculously small, and it took him another few moments to sort out a face, shoulders, arms –

Something was missing.

"You will, you will," the rusty voice reassured him. It was rather high-pitched; Ed wasn't sure whether the ancient, gnarled man was affecting it for the purpose of sarcasm, or that was how he naturally sounded. He was leaning heavily on his left armrest, and his right hand was visible just beneath the hem of what Ed now knew to be an old, large grey cloak. It was moving in a circular motion, and Edward stared hard, trying to determine if the old man was casually drawing a transmutation circle –

No. He was just aimlessly tracing circles on his leg.

Only-

Only he didn't have a leg. Either of them. Not even knees. Barely any thigh was left at all.

That was why he looked so tiny.

The old man was idly toying with the barely visible, pale white stump of his thigh, cut only a few inches from his abdomen.

And he was staring directly at him, with empty white eyes.

Edward fought a reflexive recoil, locking eyes with the ancient man. When he threw back his head and cracked out a laugh, Ed realized it was no trick of the light.

His eyes were completely clouded over, with cataracts or worse.

The old man was blind. Yet when he finished laughing, those pearled eyes came right back to him, as though the old man could actually see him.

As if he was laughing at Edward's reaction.

Mustang took a step closer to the alchemist that had written the letter, cutting again into his line of sight, and Ed realized with a jolt that Roy was doing it on purpose. Trying to attract the old man's attention.

Trying to pull it away from him.

"Where is it?" His voice was slightly sharper, but no louder.

The old alchemist chuckled to himself a moment longer. "Always to the point, Bradley. It's a fault."

Motion, to his left. The young man that had let them in had appeared in the antechamber door.

Edward took a step closer to Mustang, shaking a drop of sweat out of his eyes, and the shy man scooted a foot further into the main chamber. It was hard to tell if he was preparing for something or just wanted to be able to hear.

Neither the old alchemist or Roy seemed to notice. "Perhaps," Mustang conceded. "In any case, I'd like to see what's taken such a renowned alchemist so long to prepare."

"It's in front of your eyes, my King. Or should I say eye."

Ed took a deep, slow breath, refusing to acknowledge the droplets of perspiration that were now running down his jaw. He couldn't have been that unsettled by the old man – could he? It wasn't the first time someone had looked at him like that. Predatorily. Envy came immediately to mind, though his motives had been murder and revenge. As far as he knew, he had never come across this alchemist, so he couldn't be responsible for the lack of legs . . .

Then again, hadn't Mustang just called him 'renown'? Had he recognized this shriveled lump? Or was he merely playing into the old man's delusion? How could anyone who could perceive so much through blind eyes continue to confuse Roy Mustang with the homunculus Pride? Their voices, even their manner of speaking, were unrelated. Mustang hadn't confirmed he was Bradley, but he hadn't denied it, either. Obviously he was just trying to figure out what Pride had had the old man transmute, but –

The young man took another slinking step into the room, and Edward glanced at him openly. For a split second, he again saw the man's eyes –

He was sneering. This time he was more bold, and held Ed's gaze a moment before turning to the shelf behind him, as if distracted by a sound or a settling jar.

Was he . . . jealous? That the old man would take an interest in Edward? There was no doubt in Ed's mind he was the 'gift' the old man had referred to when he'd made his presence known. And if he'd still been a child, he might have understood it, however disgusting he found it. But he was a grown man, and what value could an old cripple find in him?

There was an obvious answer, of course, one that also explained Roy's response. An old man, close to death. A human transmutation circle.

He could simply be thinking of binding his soul to another body. If not his 'assistant,' he'd need another. Already occupied or not.

Was that what Bradley had promised him? Transmute a Stone and escape his damaged body? Become like Dante and Hohenheim?

But then, he'd expect the old alchemist's servant to be relieved, not hateful.

It was significantly warmer closer to the vent in the floor, and Edward took another deep breath to ward off a slight dizziness as he watched Mustang approach the wooden table beside the old alchemist.

"I found it was easier to work with in a powdered form, but exposure to small amounts of water will cause it to crystallize," the old man murmured. "And as you observed, it has been a long time. Where is my payment?"

Edward took a step to the side, surprised when he nearly stumbled. His knees were beginning to feel fluid, and he curled his toes in the faux automail until he caught the lever. Unlike his real automail, which wouldn't necessarily weaken if he did, this armor would only give him support as long as he was able to hold up his own weight. It added strength and leverage to his movements, but in doing so it didn't limit his ability to manipulate it.

If his knees gave out, it wouldn't hold him upright.

Was it really that hot? Another glance at Mustang found the visible skin on the side of his face dry and not flushed. Ed was already finding it harder to breathe, yet the old man and his assistant didn't seem to be distressed, either.

He tried to focus on the substance on the table, but his vision was becoming blurred. He didn't see the color red, so he was fairly certain the old man hadn't powdered a Stone. It had to be something else, which was good, but what? What payment was he expecting?

"Ah, yes," Mustang agreed, a little vaguely. "How do you feel your delay should factor into the original cost?"

Another bark, but this time it was less like a laugh. "I had a feeling you would want to renegotiate, Bradley. Too proud, you are. Another fault."

Edward forced another deep breath, swallowing back a sudden wave of nausea. The old man's lackey was moving again, but he couldn't focus very well.

He needed to get out of here. Needed fresh air.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"This was needed several years ago," Mustang continued blandly. "You can't expect someone to pay the same amount for something of less value."

Ed blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the younger man, and was dimly startled to find he couldn't. He couldn't see much of anything.

"Don't think you've the higher ground, Fuehrer." The old man's voice barely cut through a sudden roar in his ears. "My blind eyes see more than they did clear. It only takes one move to topple what you've arranged."

The old man continued, but he didn't hear anymore. The world was reduced to lights and darks, and only a pop in his leg armor alerted him that he was falling. Somewhat distantly he felt dull pain in his knees, and the shock of hitting the ground lent strength to his body's urge to vomit. Even the spasms that drew up the contents of his stomach felt removed. There was pressure on his right forearm; he must have been leaning on it. The armor would keep him upright, but only just –

A dull tickling in his throat, or maybe a burning. He couldn't pay much attention, even as it traveled lower, deeper within his chest.

It felt like he needed to breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: A relatively short chapter, I know. It's a crappy place to stop, but if I continued into the next scene this chapter would be crazy-long. Not much to say – I've looked for typos, and found a boat-load, which means there are undoubtedly more. (None as good as calling the Tringums the Fletchers, though. Whoops. ; ) I apologize in advance! Please point them out to me so I can remove them post-haste!


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

More art – from the recipient of the present! Hit Photobuckets dot com and search 'Jaya Mitai.'

- x -

When Fullmetal landed on his knees, Mustang knew he'd made a miscalculation.

A pretty big one.

His next thought was to wonder what it was going to cost him.

He turned his head sharply to the right at the sound, trying to keep all three of them in his field of vision. Edward was on his hands and knees, leaning heavily on his 'automail,' and he promptly deposited the remainder of his breakfast onto the stone floor. He was paler than Roy had ever seen him, and droplets of sweat shivered on the tip of his nose and his forehead as he retched.

Almost before Fullmetal had collapsed, the weasel-like assistant had already started openly moving towards him.

So this was expected.

Mustang took a step back towards Edward as the sheet-white alchemist tried to catch his breath, laying his forehead on his right arm. He knew the other man was going down before Ed seemed to, though luckily he slipped to his left side, rather than falling face-first into the puddle of vomit.

Either the old man was playing with them, or he really was too far gone to realize he wasn't talking to Bradley anymore. Either way, it was clear the games were over.

Mustang extended his right arm, snapping his fingers. A ball of flame erupted just in front of the approaching lackey, and the startled, high-pitched cry was quickly followed by a whiff of burnt hair. The heat from the vent in the center of the floor was moving the air through the chamber relatively quickly, and the scent was almost gone before he'd detected it.

"I didn't realize you were an alchemist, Bradley."

"Bradley's dead," Mustang responded shortly. "What did you give my driver?" No reason to indicate to them just who he was -

"He's more than your driver," the other alchemist noted, in a sly voice. "Did I not say others included bore their own risk?"

Mustang glared openly at the scorched servant, but the man was now cowering against one of the inset bookshelves, and showed no signs of recovering his courage in the immediate future. Slightly reassured, Roy dropped his hand and brought his attention back to the old man.

"You will be giving him an antidote." There were a thousand compounds around the lab, and any one of them could have been a poison. Could have been a powder the servant blew into the air in the foyer after he'd passed through the door, so only Edward was exposed. Could have been anything. He'd have a hell of a time figuring it out without their help.

Mustang took a single, threatening step towards the old man, cocking his ear back towards Edward. His breathing sounded labored, and in the flickering lighting it had looked as though his already pale skin was starting to become blue. Though he'd lowered his hand, he continued to utilize the transmutation circle on the back of the glove to start displacing oxygen around the old alchemist. He then began concentrating that excess oxygen around Edward.

Two birds with one stone, as it were.

"Not necessarily," the old man replied mildly, staring at him with blank, slightly drooping eyes. "He's as useful to me in this state as he was before. An arm and a leg, yes?"

Mustang tried to ignore the odd quiver in the man's voice as he said the last, increasing the amount of oxygen he was drawing away. It would probably be easier to get the information out of the servant than the master. Whoever he was.

"You may change your appearance, but . . ." The old man trailed off, and his blind, drooping eyes suddenly seemed to get brighter. "Why, Bradley, are you trying to kill me?"

The tone wasn't at all offended. It was almost amused.

Without twitching, without drawing a circle, without any motion at all, Mustang could feel the oxygen rebuilding around the old alchemist. He couldn't even tell from where in the room the old man was drawing it. Even as he continued siphoning it off, it was being replaced almost instantly.

Which meant he had a transmutation circle hidden in the cloak.

_Damn._

At least it sounded like Edward's breathing wasn't as strained. That was something.

But it wasn't much. This was about to get ugly very quickly.

"Or is this merely an incapacitation effort," the old alchemist mused. "You still need me, don't you."

And then the floor fell away.

It was instant. He'd never seen anything like it. One moment he was standing on solid rock, and the very next second it had already wound around him up to his waist.

His miscalculation was going to cost a lot.

There was no time to protect Elric. There was no time to protect himself. He reached out for the flames flickering on the ceiling, following them down to their gas fuel. When he found it, he ignited an explosion around the line, rupturing it along a seven-yard run.

The explosion was probably fairly impressive. He didn't actually see it; by the time he'd triggered the reaction he had been completely immobilized in the rock, his head forcibly pointed straight ahead. As the chamber shuddered, he had time for the fleeting thought that at least his shackles would offer him some protection. A blast of heat swatted his face, but it wasn't the searing he'd expected. More like being too close to a bonfire when a gust of wind suddenly swept the heat a different direction.

He heard a roaring sound, but it was strangely muted. Outside of the initial light of the first explosion, he hadn't see the flash of the second. Granted, he'd been trying for a moderate blast only, to concuss them all rather than bring the chamber down around their ears, but not a single pebble on the ground . . .?

Roy Mustang eased open his eye, and took a cautious breath.

He couldn't see anything.

For a moment, he wondered if it was so silent because he was dead.

"What excellent technique!" The compliment sounded quite close, and Mustang blinked into the darkness, nonplussed.

Surely he'd knocked them out. An explosion of that magnitude –

No one could have controlled it. No one could have caught the rock as it was being blown apart and transmuted it back together again.

"So your specialty is fire, is it?" He would guess the other alchemist was no more than three feet from him. "Well done, my friend. I knew a truly excellent Flame Alchemist in my day, though I understand he's since died."

Something snakelike flicked against the insides of his trapped wrists, as if tasting them, then slipped between his skin and his gloves. It was incredibly thin; he didn't feel the fabric snagging or tearing as the cool, smooth thing wound around his fingers like a tongue. It effectively cut off his ability to utilize the transmutation circles on his ignition gloves.

Was that rock? The amount he was controlling was so thin, so fine. How was he able to manipulate it so fluidly?

Had he really transmuted a Stone at some point? Was that how he was managing all this? And if so, why hadn't he restored his own body, his sight -

Mustang's wide eye was starting to detect the faintest light, though it seemed a deep red rather than the blue of a normal alchemic reaction.

Had he managed to keep only the area around them stable? What about his manservant?

What about Edward?

"Don't look so alarmed, Bradley. I told you –"

"Bradley's gone," Roy ground out, blinking steadily and waiting to become better adjusted to the darkness. "What exactly did you make, and what did you expect to be paid for it?"

The rock wound tighter around him, and Mustang fought to remain silent. The old man didn't stop increasing the pressure until he extracted a grunt of pain.

"You're not fooling anyone," the old man growled, his voice like gravel. "You're not dealing with my sensei, Fuehrer. You're dealing with me."

Sensei? Not that identifying the man was going to do him any good now –

He barely heard the shuffling sound, but apparently it was crystal clear to the old man. "He's been restrained," the raspy voice called impatiently. "You know I don't like to listen to it."

This time, at least he saw the blue glow of alchemic energy. It crackled from some point to his right, crawling towards the ceiling of the chamber –

And then the gas chandeliers were glowing cheerily once more.

There was some evidence of the damage, but not much. Some of the ceilings of the bookshelves nearest the gas pipe showed deep black soot marks, from books too badly destroyed to repair with alchemy. All the jars had been restored, as had their contents, with the exception of those elements that had been instantly converted into heat energy and completely incinerated.

Otherwise, the chamber looked exactly as it had before. The gas line, the chandeliers themselves – everything was none the worse for the explosion he had felt deep in the rock.

It was impossible. He wasn't sure it could even be explained with a Philosopher's Stone.

But what else could explain it?

His orientation in the room had not changed, and he realized the faint red light that he'd seen in the total darkness of the room had been the hole in the floor. It must lead down to the point where the planet's core was so hot the rocks were molten.

The old man himself was still seated in his odd wheelchair, less than two feet away. His eyes were much clearer from this distance, and he could see that heavy layers of film covered them both. Where the layers overlapped had turned a fatty, spotted yellow, and only in the bottom-most corner of his right eye was there anything dark enough to indicate intact iris or pupil.

So he really couldn't see.

"Take a good look," the old man said mockingly, leaning in closer. "Soon you'll start seeing me wherever you go. Around every corner and in every home. I'm going to make sure you never forget betraying me."

Mustang tried to deepen his breathing, his chest uncomfortably compressed by the stone. "For the last time, I'm not Bradley! He's dead!"

The old man thought he'd gotten rid of all the transmutation circles.

He still had one more chance.

Of course, even assuming he was able to subdue or kill the old man, then what? He was completely trapped in stone. If the alchemist's manservant didn't release him, and Fullmetal couldn't –

He couldn't even hear Ed breathing, anymore.

The old man glared at him, somehow managing it despite the fact his eyes were all but useless, and Mustang ignored him, using the final circle to reach around the room. All he was looking for was atmospheric currents. He could sense his own, the old man's, the manservant to his right, and behind him –

The faintest brush of gas on gas. CO2 and water, mostly.

An exhalation.

That fourth had to be Edward.

So he was still breathing.

"Did you manipulate Timothy this way?" The old man thrust his face even closer to Mustang's, and with the stone cradling the back of his head, there was nowhere to go. "Time and time again he was foolish. But I'm not him. I will have it. I . . . I need it! WHERE IS IT? !"

The old alchemist shouted the last so forcefully that his voice cracked, and Mustang closed his eye reflexively against the spittle.

"I don't know!" Perhaps shouting would get the point across? "Listen to me! My name is Roy Mustang. If you tell me what 'it' is, maybe I can help you!"

"LIAR!" The alchemist suddenly seeming to loom over him. Roy's stomach lurched as he realized he had sunk several inches further into the rock.

Not that it really mattered, in the great scheme of things.

Since the alchemist was clearly not paying attention, Mustang began discreetly gathering oxygen from the unused portions of the chamber, concentrating it once again around Edward.

Maybe he should start making short innuendos. That would be enough to wake Fullmetal from death.

Several tense moments passed as the old alchemist struggled to control his temper. "I know I'm just one piece of your puzzle." The man's voice shook with rage, but the volume was much closer to normal conversation. "And I know of only one other alchemist who was advanced enough in your interests to be the other piece. We were childhood friends, you know." The ghost of a smile, making the eerily empty eyes seem even more so.

"I'll go to him, Bradley. We'll combine the pieces of your puzzle."

It was very clearly supposed to be a threat.

"Is it worth it? To watch everything you've worked for falling to dust around you? How proud will you be then?"

"Enough!" If he couldn't convince the lunatic, playing along was the only other option. " . . . it's in the boot of the car." The old man's - apprentice, he had to be, had been the one to transmute the chandeliers aflame, if not repair them. He was a coward, but an unpredictable one. If he could get him out of the room, and hold the old man as a hostage, perhaps he could convince the apprentice to let him out –

He heard quick footsteps, the apprentice's flat shoes slapping on the stone as he hurried towards the stairwell. He was a little surprised his sudden turn-around hadn't given the young man pause – he certainly hadn't fooled the old alchemist. Almost exasperatedly, the old man watched him go, then seemed to focus on something –

On Edward.

"Your man's automail is poorly made," he observed politely, as though the previous conversation had never happened. "You should pay him more handsomely for his loyalty."

Mustang held his tongue and allowed the oxygen to dissipate. Pride would probably be offended to be told he wasn't paying a worthless, untrustworthy human enough salary.

"He must mean a great deal to you, that you so determinedly try to sustain his life," the alchemist continued quietly. "Where is it?"

Mustang just met his gaze squarely.

How the hell could he tell? The amount of alchemic energy it took to perform what he was doing was so minimal he was pretty sure the circle he was using wasn't even visibly glowing. Unless the energy was resonating within an amplifier –

Did the old man really have a Stone?

This was his last chance –

No. His last chance ended when he chose to blow the gaspipe instead of incinerating the man outright. The moment he tried to concentrate oxygen around the old man he'd figure out what was about to happen. If he truly was fighting an opponent with a Stone, his only chance at victory had already come and gone.

The thin, cool tongues of rock snaked into his collar, up his sleeves, into his pant legs. They wound and coiled effortlessly around him, separating him from every stitch of clothing he had. Still the alchemist had not so much as twitched a finger.

If he did have a Stone, where the hell was it? Was he sitting on it, perhaps? Was it a pendant he wore around his neck?

"I don't know what you mean."

The old alchemist leaned closer, studying his face as if he could see every line. Then he reached a gnarled hand forward, flicking up the leather and cotton covering his left eye.

Roy would have flinched if he'd had anywhere to go.

"You could have tried to kill me again," the alchemist chided. Then he ripped the eyepatch – and its inscribed transmutation circle – off his head.

For a moment, the old man just toyed with it, then he seemed to deflate, just slightly. "You're really not him, are you." It was . . . disappointed. Heavily, heavily disappointed.

Mustang masked his relief with effort. If he'd known that was all it was going to take - "My name is Roy Mustang," he repeated. "I'm the Flame Alchemist." The idea of a Prime Minister would just seem ridiculous to this hermit. He didn't need to confuse the old man any more than he already was.

The old alchemist was rubbing the eyepatch between his thumb and forefinger, apparently feeling the design of the circle he kept hidden there. "It's exactly the same," he murmured softly. "He was your sensei, then. A whole new generation of alchemists, and here I remain. There aren't many of us left, are there."

"Few as old as you are." Or as crazy. He was careful not to fight the paper-thin rock that nestled around him like a second skin. It probably had edges like razors, and while it was unlikely he could do anything with physical strength alone, he didn't want to break this sudden, fragile understanding. "You need to tell me what he asked you to transmute."

"A piece of something far greater," he replied, focusing again on Roy's face. He reached out again, more slowly, and traced a curled finger along one of the now-exposed scars.

"No tattoos," he noted, almost to himself. "But scars. You fought him, didn't you. Bradley."

Mustang couldn't turn away from the touch, though he closed what remained of the left eyelid as the wandering fingertip brushed too close. He had once dated a blind girl, and was familiar with the way the blind 'felt' a face to picture it in their mind, but this man seemed to see without it.

He also seemed a little preoccupied with physical imperfections. Was the old alchemist able to feel the scars Pride had given him through the way the rock had formed around his body?

Mustang wasn't sure if the old man had lapsed into calling him after Pride again, or was just defining his pronouns. "I did."

"I wondered why you didn't bring your sword." The old man tucked the patch into the folds of his faded cloak, leaning back to study Mustang once again. He was beginning to get the feeling whatever brief moment of sanity the man had experienced was quickly passing.

"This was the last one," he confirmed to himself. "I always detested alchemists that tattooed themselves with circles. Such arrogance, that their initial designs were the most efficient."

Kimblee came instantly to his mind, and Mustang carefully cleared his throat. "We meant you no harm. Please, my driver –"

"Oh, dear me! Of course, of course." The old man shook himself, as though rousing from a nap. "And I should let you up, then, shouldn't I. Afterwards though, I think would be best."

Afterwards? "I'm –"

"The badness," the old man murmured. "Yes, before Craege returns. Is there actually anything in your boot?"

Roy tried to wrap his brain around the jumbled statements. "I don't know. It isn't my vehicle."

The old man chuckled slyly. "Ah, why you were so concerned for the young man." Again, the odd look crossed the old man's face, and the tip of his tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. "His automail is really quite clanky, isn't it? I never cared for it, myself. Too cold, too inhuman."

That, at least, made it sound as though he was going to let Edward live, at any rate.

Quite suddenly, his attention refocused on the trapped alchemist in front of him. "It will spread to your other eye," he breathed, as if suddenly letting Roy in on a secret. "Just as it did with me. You're too young to lose your sight just yet."

The badness . . .

"I lost my left eye in battle," he said clearly. Most of it, at least. The optic nerve was still present in the socket, along with a portion of the vitreous humor and retina. "It won't affect my other eye." Surely he wasn't saying –

Whatever clarity the old man had had was gone.

The old alchemist reached trembling, bent hands towards Mustang's face, and this time Roy did everything he could to turn away. The rock reshaped behind him, a finger of it wrapping around his forehead, completely immobilizing him.

"I thought the same," the old man assured him, gently stroking the scars on the left side of his face with those clawlike fingers. "But it's best to get it all out in the beginning."

With something akin to relish, the old alchemist unhesitatingly pressed his thumbnail into the exposed socket.

- x -

**Author's Note**: Yes, it's a day late. It wasn't my fault! But now you see, last chapter would have been ridiculously long if I'd not split it up. As always, I read through for typos but they're quite possibly still in there. The plot will start moving next chapter, I promise. After all, we still don't know what the old man transmuted, if he has a Philosopher's Stone, whether he's going to remember Mustang isn't Bradley in ten minutes . . . If I were really nice, I'd post it tonight, but I think maybe it's more fun to torture Silverfox . . . ; )


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

"Anything concrete?"

Alphonse Elric leaned on the doorjamb of the room, trying to acknowledge the charge nurse tapping her foot at him without actually indicating that he intended to go anywhere in the near future. She was just down the hall, and probably couldn't hear what was being said, but he doubted anything they might discuss was not for the ears of the staff entrusted with her care.

Russell Tringum was standing at the foot of the bed, and he shook his head in reply as he stooped to grab his tan jacket. Clearly they really were preparing to leave, so the charge nurse could just be patient a moment longer. Russell shrugged himself into the light coat, turning again to stare at the occupant of the bed thoughtfully.

"Not a clue," he admitted. "The recurrent swelling has stopped, and I agree all that will help now is rest, but . . . this wasn't a stomach virus. No weird proteins, no unusual substances . . ."

"Whatever it was metabolized too fast," Fletcher muttered from the edge of the mattress. He seemed reluctant to leave, though both the Winding Tree Alchemist and his brother had been the ones to inform the doctors they had done all they could.

They'd probably saved her life.

What had she been thinking when she chose those two gorillas to watch over the Prime Minister? In a building full of alchemists, they had wanted a doctor? Luckily the academy secretary had had the sense to pull the Tringums out of his class, or –

He didn't want to think about or.

What mattered was that she was going to be okay.

Probably.

"We've drained the edema. She should be fine with just rest."

"Could it have been an allergic reaction?"

"No," Russell replied, coming to stand by the door with Al. "That's different. And easy to detect. This was almost like . . ."

"Like some surface irritant caused the swelling in her throat," Fletcher finished for his older brother. "I'd almost say she swallowed something, but it would have inflamed her stomach as well, and there was nothing unusual or distended in her abdomen –"

And even if she had, she hadn't kept it down very long. Then again, if it had been an irritant going down, it probably would have been coming back up. Which could explain why her stomach seemed fine.

"And the swelling led to the breathing problems?"

Fletcher nodded, eventually getting to his feet. "Something's still causing a lingering weakness, but we can't find it without getting a little too close to human transmutation."

And without any Red Stone to 'pay' for such a thing, it was inadvisable.

They needed answers, but it looked as though they were going to have to get them the old-fashioned way.

They were going to have to wait until Colonel Riza Hawkeye woke up.

"And even if we could," he continued, joining them as all three stepped back into the hall, "by now there's not much we could do about it. Her doctors will call us the minute her condition changes . . ." He trailed off as the three passed the charge nurse, who gave them an approving sort of look as they left the critical care ward. Just through the double-doors promised to be at least one of Mustang's old team, to carry the news to the others.

The others that were spread far and wide, trying to find him.

Probably more than half-afraid he was hidden in a room somewhere, already having breathed his last.

Al was a little more confident that Mustang had somehow survived what appeared to have been an assassination attempt. That confidence sprang from the fact that Ed was also nowhere to be found. His lecture notes were in his office, demonstrating that he'd at least made it there before he'd vanished.

Both were gone without a trace.

And both of their vehicles were missing as well.

There were many explanations for this, ranging from a kidnapping attempt to Edward trying to chase down the assassins. However it had happened, it was likely their disappearances were related.

And that reassured him, somehow.

Even if it also worried him.

"Al, are you still going to get some restoration work done today?"

It was still fairly early in the afternoon, a little after two, actually. He could definitely get a few hours' construction under his belt, but the idea of being out in the street without a consistent form of communication was less than attractive. What if nii-san tried to call?

Of course, he would assume his brother was out doing the restoration work, but on the off chance he called someone –

It would probably be Mustang's folks - or the Tringums. And he could accomplish more waiting with Russ and Fletch than he could locked up in Central's HQ.

"I'm going to wait until I know where nii-san is," he answered. "Did you still want to look over the amplifier?"

Russell's lips turned up, but he didn't say anything.

Fletcher seemed oblivious. "That's not a bad idea. Looks like Falman's decided to keep an eye on her for us," he added.

They pushed through the double-doors, heading for the silver-haired, unsmiling uniform not twenty feet away.

- x -

His first thought was that he must have imbibed too much alcohol.

His head was throbbing, and his tongue was thick and sour. Furthermore, his stomach was curled in an unhappy knot, cramping to his pulse. It reminded him very much of his first hangover, which meant he must have really, really overdone it –

But when?

Blearily, he cracked open his eyes, and reality flooded back in.

It was helped along by visions of thick grey stone, forming the floor upon which he was half-laying.

Edward picked up his head slightly before realizing it had been a _very_ bad idea. The room began spinning almost immediately, and he swallowed back a reflexive gag as his stomach responded queasily. Breathing wasn't nearly as difficult as he remembered it being before, which was probably a good sign, but the fact that he was apparently slumped against a stone wall was probably not.

Very carefully, Ed glanced around as much as he could without changing the orientation of his inner ear. He could see his legs stretched out in front of him, and a subtle wiggling of the toes told him his legs were still feeling weak, but basically intact. To his peripheral vision, his arms disconnected at his shoulders, and Edward rotated his head very slowly to his right, just far enough to see that his arm was fully extended at his shoulder. An attempt to rotate it netted him the grind of metal on metal, with the faintest chiming ring to it.

He was probably shackled to a wall, then.

Which meant he was a prisoner.

Mustang.

Edward picked his head up a little further off his chest, ignoring the way his neck protested the movement. He'd obviously been in this position for several hours, enough to work up a pretty decent crick. With every breath the dizziness was lessening, as well as the nausea.

He hadn't been that quickly or violently sick since he was six. Of all the times to come down with something debilitating –

Ed unthinkingly shifted his left arm, hissing in surprise as a blade sliced cleanly across his wrist. As soon as he glanced that way his world wobbled, and when it settled he got a better look at the manacles holding him to the wall. It was a metal cuff, of the same flavor the military used for standard prisoner shackles, seamlessly molded to a bracket of metal that held it off the wall about eight inches. It was just enough distance that he couldn't manipulate his fingers into touching the wall – preventing him from drawing a transmutation circle. The manacle itself was a thick enough cuff that a normal wrist would have been too immobilized to bend the fingers to the cuff itself, though his wrists were a little finer because –

Because his frame was a little smaller.

Of all the times for it to be a benefit . . .

But because of that wiggle room, he saw that the edge had cut into his wrist as it had been forced to suppport his unconscious weight. The pain he'd just felt had been ripping the congealed blood and scabs off the metal and his skin. The cuts were messy but very shallow, nothing to be concerned about.

His headache was slowly easing off, and he'd already given away the fact that he was conscious, so he fully raised his head and surveyed the room. The 'cell' was really more like an antechamber, and the arched entryway didn't even contain a door. If not for the shackles that secured him to the wall, he could simply have walked out of the room. Unlike the other chamber, this one did not contain bookcases and jars. In fact, given the state of the furniture that was stacked against one wall, he would probably say it was a storage room. Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

And it was currently storing him and the Prime Minister of Amestris.

Mustang was bound to the wall on Ed's left, in a very similar manner. His head was also bowed to his chest, though he'd scooted himself closer to the wall at some point so he wasn't putting as much strain on his arms and shoulders. His visible eye was closed, and his chin was touching the high collar of his uniform.

Ed found it suddenly reassuring that they were still both wearing their uniforms. After the way the old alchemist had looked at him –

But . . . then what had happened? He recalled puking and suffocating, but after that there wasn't much.

What had happened, that Mustang was a prisoner as well? Did the old man still think he was Bradley? Didn't he expect that someone would come looking for the Fuehrer?

Ed blinked. Judging by the stiffness in his neck, he'd been bound this way for hours. Hadn't Hawkeye known where they were going? Shouldn't she have already been here?

Was the fact that she – or anyone else, for that matter – wasn't bound in the room with them a good sign, or a bad one?

"Bastard." He said it softly, not sure if they could be overheard through the vaulted doorway and whether Mustang was still playing Bradley. At the very least, it would be a name he'd respond to –

Mustang's right eye slowly opened. Other than that, he didn't move.

Had the same thing happened to him? Was he wrong in thinking he'd just taken ill? Had they somehow been drugged?

"What happened?"

Mustang blinked very slowly. "They're gone." His voice was quite hoarse, and he made no attempt to whisper. "I suspect to Central, to find another alchemist."

Another alchemist? Edward waited for Mustang to continue, but he just slowly closed his eye.

His position against the wall was fairly rigid, which was telling for a man that could look casual in the most structured and formal of situations. His stiff carriage was not being caused by the manacles securing him to the wall, if Edward's own slumped position was any indication.

"Who? What other alchemist?"

Roy took a deep breath, and didn't bother opening his eye again. "He said a childhood friend." His voice was getting more ragged by the word, and on the last it cracked. "But no one in Central is old enough."

Edward watched the other man for a long time, looking him over. His uniform was black, so it hid anything telling like bloodstains. He didn't see any tears, though he noted Mustang's hands were bare. He could only see half the man; his left leg was bent rather than laying in front of him, but outside of that he appeared to be fine.

"What else did I miss?" He rotated his left wrist, purposefully catching the raw skin against the sharp edge before shoving it through the manacle as far as he could. If he could get enough blood into the inner cuff, he could probably catch some on his forefinger, and draw a transmutation circle –

"He didn't tell me what he made." Roy's eye slitted open again as he heard the rustling, but he didn't turn his head. "He thinks it's an ingredient for something else." There was a pause. "He's using an amplifier. I don't know if it's a true Stone."

"I was referring to what happened to you," Ed growled as he fought to bend his fingers to the cuff. He could just brush it with the fingernail of his forefinger, but that wasn't going to catch enough blood to do much of anything, let alone be able to draw a decent circle.

"Your hand isn't small enough for that."

Ed started to bristle, but then replayed the comment in his head. He wasn't small enough for something. That was a first.

And Roy hadn't turned it into a joke. Mustang must be hurt worse than he'd thought.

Edward gave it another shot, but soon accepted that it just wasn't going to happen. With a quiet curse, he relaxed back against the wall, easing his aching wrist into a more comfortable position, and resumed staring at Mustang.

He'd closed his eye again, but now he'd leaned his head back against the wall. The position exposed his throat, and Ed was shocked to see what looked like a smear of blood.

"He decided to save me from early blindness," Mustang finally replied. His voice was now no more than a croak. "That was after I tried to blow him up, so I don't really blame him."

Edward digested that for a moment, noting that he didn't see the black strap that normally held on Mustang's eyepatch. Save him from early blindness . . . clearly his right eye was just fine, so –

Roy didn't look towards him, didn't move at all.

His stomach turned queasily again.

"I thought it was already gone," Ed finally ventured. Outside of a sarcastic remark or two regarding how much it reminded him of Pride, and how it affected his otherwise good looks, they'd never discussed it. He knew from asking around that Mustang had nearly died in his fight with the Homunculus Pride, and that he'd been saved by the then-lieutenant Hawkeye as Frank Archer was about to kill him. He didn't know if Pride had gotten rid of the eye as a taunt, if it had been damaged in the fire that had destroyed the Fuehrer's mansion . . . he supposed it didn't matter, he just assumed the eye had been completely gone.

Although Al had told him very soberly, one night in Southern France, that Mustang had given up alchemy for a while because he kept seeing all the atrocities he'd committed with his left eye. So perhaps there'd just been a remnant –

Had the old man just put it out?

"A portion of it," Mustang replied, voice barely above a whisper. "Leaving the remainder in made it less likely that I'd develop an infection." He didn't offer any more information, and Ed didn't ask. Probably at the time that had been a huge worry; from what Havoc had told him they weren't sure Roy was going to pull through for quite a while.

Havoc.

"Has anyone else shown up?" He didn't really know of a delicate way to ask if they'd already been slaughtered, or Roy had heard sounds of combat.

"No."

So no cavalry. Or if there was one, somehow they'd missed the huge chimney or the door that led down to the chamber. It was possible the alchemist just transmuted it away when he wasn't using it or expecting guests, in which case Hawkeye and her team might have already given up and left.

So they were going to have to get themselves out of this.

Edward shifted his arms, using them to pull himself into a more proper sitting position. His right elbow caught on an edge inside the armor, rubbing in a way he hadn't felt since Winry's beta model, the one they'd slapped on him in the hospital before Mustang had been elected to keep Hakuro off his back. Slightly alarmed, Ed continued rotating the arm. Everything still seemed to bend, though movement in his wrist was difficult.

On a whim, he picked up his left leg, rotating the ankle. It moved without difficulty, but it seemed a little loose, as though he hadn't tightened the adjusting straps all the way before he'd attached it.

Someone had been playing with the armor.

Two guesses as to who had done it.

"Did he disable your automail?"

Ed flexed all the joints as well as he could. "No, but it's out of adjustment." The idea that he might have been stripped of it at all, especially if he'd been unconscious at the time –

Who knew what else he might have done. After what the man had done to Mustang -

"How long were you out?" It was pretty safe to guess that if the old alchemist really had removed what was left of Roy's eye, that Mustang had probably passed out at some point. Science told them there were millions of nerve bundles in the human eye, making it one of the most sensitive organs in the body.

It also explained his hoarse voice. That would be enough to make anyone scream themselves mute.

Mustang just shook his head, slightly. It wasn't enough to give Ed a good look at the left side of his face.

So there really was a chance the old man had pulled off the armor, thinking it was automail.

To keep him from using it? Cripple him so it was harder for them to escape? Or -

The memory of his gnarled fingers stroking the stump of his own ancient leg was enough to make Edward's skin crawl.

He kept his shudder to himself, reaching his thumb around inside the joint till he found the lever. Slightly surprised it was still intact, he pushed it to is strongest setting, and gave an experimental tug on the shackle.

A sharp crack, but the manacle held without so much as a tremor.

"Amplifier or no, he's not too good with mechanical apparatus," Ed noted, pulling his feet under him so that he was standing in a deep crouch. Bracing the armor's elbow joint against the wall, he pulled his forearm towards him. The metal began an aching creak that seemed to echo through the small room, and he could see that he wasn't just fighting a weld.

The shackles had been transmuted. It was a single piece of metal.

So he shouldn't be trying to break the manacle off the metal column. He should be putting the most strain on where the metal met the stone.

Changing his position as best be could with the other arm all but tied behind him, Edward braced his elbow at a different fulcrum, and tried again. This time he got less metal creak. With a quick hiss, half an inch of the metal column pulled lose of the stone wall. Edward paused a moment, getting a few good lungfuls of air, and tried again, this time working it back and forth as he applied force.

Only a few moments into his efforts, Ed heard a loud, difficult-sounding swallow, and it was another several seconds before he realized that someone was standing in the doorway.

Edward froze, staring at the vaulted archway as the slim figure hurried away. He'd gotten a glimpse of long, straight brown hair that fell down past her waist, and a simple, sleeveless ivory dress. She didn't immediately return, nor did she shout or raise any alarm, and he risked a glance towards Mustang. Roy had noticed her also, and for the first time he turned his head enough for Ed to see his face.

The old man had tried to patch up his impromptu surgery with a thick square of gauze, taped around the socket. It hadn't been nearly enough to stop the blood, which had soaked the bottom edge of the cotton and tape black before leaving wide tracks down Mustang's face. The blood had run down his jaw to drip on his throat and collar, and Edward suspected if the uniform wasn't black, he'd have seen it all the way to the left breast of the jacket.

He'd lost a fair amount of blood. They'd need to get him to a hospital, immediately, or the aforementioned infection would be almost a certainty –

Ed redoubled his efforts, bracing his armored leg against one of the uneven stones for additional leverage. So someone had been left behind to watch them.

And they'd wasted all that time talking.

Shit.

He had pulled the column of metal about two inches from the wall before he caught motion in his peripheral vision, and he looked up to see the girl advancing towards him. She was neither hurried nor did she seem frightened; she merely looked at him expressionlessly, her brown eyes steady. In her right hand, she held a small paring knife, such as his mother had used to peel apples, and as the blade flashed in the light, he could see it had an odd, greenish tinge to it.

Whatever was on that blade, he knew he didn't want anything to do with it.

Maybe something like that was what had made him sick in the first place.

Though he wondered if perhaps it had been meant to make him dead. If the old alchemist truly thought Mustang was Bradley, there's be value in holding him.

There was no value in his life, now. Particularly if the old alchemist knew his leg and arm were intact.

"Stop." Mustang's voice cracked across the room as sharply as a whip. "One more step and I'll burn you to charcoal."

It was an empty threat; he could tell Mustang hadn't been able to draw a transmutation circle, though he was holding his right hand at an odd angle, as though he was able to touch the back of the manacle that held his fingers. It was enough to stop the girl; her eyes never so much as widened but she froze, staring at him impassively. She opened and closed her mouth awkwardly several times, almost like a fish, and then she swallowed again.

So she was a mute?

Edward gave a tremendous heave, using his aching left wrist for additional leverage as he pulled with all his strength. The metal was coming easier now; it tapered toward the end, but was also rougher-made, with more jagged edges. At the same moment he managed to extract it completely from the wall, he saw the girl call Mustang's bluff, and lunge towards him.

But his hand was free. It was still connected to the manacle, and he swung the entire contraption in front of him as he brought his right hand in contact with his left.

Then he touched the shackle that was binding his left hand to the wall with his right.

Nothing happened.

He had enough time to stare at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before he realized he was in deep trouble. He immediately flung his right arm in a wide arc, luckily catching the knife as it was swung in a quick upward motion. It would have passed across his face; as it was, she lost her grip on the paring knife as the top of her hand came in contact with the armor, and the knife jumped briefly into the air before slipping harmless down the front of his vest to the ground.

When he'd turned to fend off her attack, his left thumb had brushed the right edge of the manacle, and the transmutation he'd intended finally occurred. Surprised at the sudden change in his support, Edward stumbled back against the wall, accidentally kicking the knife.

Luckily, it didn't puncture his right boot, but he all but knocked it right back to his attacker. She didn't seem to notice; she was rubbing her hand where she'd been struck, staring at him dispassionately.

Some of her long hair had swung behind her shoulder in the struggle, and a dangling earring came into view –

A round one.

She was an alchemist too.

That was all the warning he had before a thin black arm reached around from behind, wrapping around his chest.

Edward stared in shock as it was joined with another, this one coiling around his left arm. Had she –

Had she opened the Gate?

"MOVE!"

The grating shout had come from Mustang. Who he could still see, leaning as far out as his bonds would allow, trying unsuccessfully to reach the girl as she knelt to retrieve her knife. He could still see the walls, too, and the floor –

The Gate had never appeared behind him before.

Edward chanced a glance a behind him, even as a third arm appeared from the wall, wrapping around his right ankle. Its little fingers were grabbing at his pant leg, and it appeared to be coming directly out of the stone.

There was no Gate.

These were just normally transmuted arms.

And either way, they were made of the same stuff.

Edward twisted, fighting the pressure on his chest, and clapped his hands again. This time he was merely attempting decomposition of carbon, and he caught the one that had coiled around his left arm with his right hand.

Nothing happened.

The one around his chest was exerting a lot of pressure, and it tossed him to his left, yanking his right ankle out from under him at the same time. Completely unbalanced, he flew towards the ground. She was stepping in again, going for a downward approach this time.

She was going to sink the knife into his back.

The manacle and its bracket were still attached to his right wrist, extending the reach of his arm. He would have only one chance to defend himself, and only one angle. But with the metal there, he was going to knock her arm aside, not stop its momentum. If he deflected her attack, she was going to end up stabbing herself in the thigh.

If that really was a poison –

It would kill her.

Or it would kill him.

"DO IT!"

No more time.

He swung the column of metal high to his right. She'd seen him preparing; at the same time he moved, the arm wrapped around his left yanked him down faster, trying to turn him so he couldn't complete the counterattack. He felt the metal graze something solid but couldn't tell what it was, and he tried to curl into the yank, hoping it would drag him out of range.

He hit the stones hard, his head bouncing sharply against the joint of the wall and floor, and for a moment he lay still, stunned. It was hard to catch his breath; the black arm was still constricting him. With difficulty he pushed himself off the floor, his eyes darting over his shoulder –

To see the young woman standing there, staring at him. The knife was at her side, and the hand holding it wore several drops of blood.

There was more blood, staining the front of her ivory dress near a small tear. Not very much. It wasn't even a bad cut; it looked like she'd grazed the outside of her leg rather than sinking the knife deeply into flesh –

The black arms weren't loosening. In fact, they were tightening.

Edward felt a rib crack under the pressure, and he tried to twist again, just able to brush his left hand to his right. This time, he used his uncovered hand to touch the carbon arm that felt as though it was trying to tear his arm off at the socket. It immediately disintegrated into simple powder. A second brush with his hand removed the coil around his chest, and Edward coughed, rolling onto his back.

She was already falling, the knife extended in front of her –

Reflexively, he grabbed the blade with his armored hand.

She crashed to her knees, still clinging to the knife, and stared at him.

"Where's the antidote?" It was gasped, but he was certain she understood. Her mouth opened again, in that odd, gaping motion, and then her grip on the knife faltered. He ripped it out of her hand, tossing it at the pile of furniture in the far corner, and tried to catch her as she toppled forward.

"Tell me where!" It wasn't too late, he could get it and give it to her, all they had to do was take her earrings –

But she couldn't tell him.

Her eyes were glazed, and she continued opening and closing her mouth, her throat bobbing oddly before –

Before she stopped.

Edward stared at her, trying to juggle her in his arms as she slumped. He managed to lay her on her back, his left hand going to her neck to find a pulse. Maybe she'd just fallen unconscious – he could find the container with the green liquid, maybe it was labeled –

Something hard met his fingers, rather than the soft flesh he expected. But there was no doubt he'd found a blood vessel as well, he could feel it clearly beneath her thin, pale skin.

There was no pulse.

He stared at her a moment more, then raised stunned eyes to see Mustang, watching him.

The other man was silent.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: So, I promised plot, but I realized I couldn't deliver because this chapter would have been unusually long as well. I apologize for not posting as I promised – the Daylight Savings patch has caused me to work a boatload of overtime, most of it not at home near the fic. I changed the plot slightly, and haven't actually quite finished it yet :ashamed ducking of head: but a pretty substantial portion will be posted tomorrow, after I get some sleep. I just wanted to make sure if Silverfox was looking for fic this evening, at least she'd get a little!

As usual, I have looked for typos, but there are bound to be plenty more in there. Thank you for being so patient!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

It had been a mistake to let him come.

He cracked open the small box, rifling through the contents a moment before finding a packet of the right shape. The car rumbled to life beneath him, which he ignored as he tore open the paper envelope, spilling two small, white pills into his hand. He popped them into his mouth, swallowing them even as they tried to stick to his dry throat. It would take a while for them to provide any relief, but they had the entire drive back to Central.

Just before they started a manhunt for a cripple without legs that could probably effortlessly decimate an entire legion of soldiers.

He leaned back in the seat and tried to ignore the throbbing in his head as the car lurched forward, turning in the circular gravel driveway before finding the harder-packed dirt of the main road. He knew he should probably clean himself up, but for the moment all he wanted to do was remain still.

It didn't really help. Nothing helped. This pain reached into his upper and lower jaws, reached into his neck. Reached the very back of his skull. It hadn't hurt this badly when he'd originally lost half the eye.

Of course, he didn't really recall the bullet, and the wound had had days to heal before he woke the first time.

It would have been nice if that scenario had repeated itself.

Edward had been almost silent since their escape, and he didn't say anything now. His eyes were straight ahead, on the road, and both his hands were on the steering wheel. He wasn't nearly as pale as he had been, which meant he was probably fully recovered from whatever poison they'd given him –

It hadn't been the same stuff that had killed the woman. The symptoms were completely different. Whatever had been given to Edward the first time had been meant to incapacitate, but there was no doubt if he hadn't done what he just did, he would be dead in that room instead of her.

But the idealistic Elric probably didn't see it that way.

They'd found the chemical she'd used, in a clay pot on the wooden table where the powder had once been. It had been unlabeled, and other than being an evil, oily green liquid, he had no idea of its makeup. He supposed one of them could have transmuted it, but Edward wasn't in any condition to explore the area.

And neither was he.

It turned out the channel the stairwell had circled was actually an elevator, which had been a welcome discovery. The hiss of steam had greeted them when they'd arrived at the ground floor of the cottage; a pot of noodles was boiling over on the gas stove. She'd been cooking a meal.

That was why she'd had a paring knife, rather than an actual weapon. She'd just been out to nick Edward, it probably would have been enough. Whatever it was had killed her so quickly –

And there was no doubt it was a homemade poison. The old alchemist had made two of them. But more than that, his laboratory, all but lined with ingredients, some elements and some unknowns –

Compounds. Probably like what he'd transmuted. He'd picked up a small crystal of it when he'd been showing him his 'finished product,' so obviously it wasn't a poison that could be absorbed by the skin or breathed, but that didn't mean it wasn't harmful.

He had heard of an alchemist that specialized in transmuting custom compounds for alchemic ingredients, but it couldn't be the same man.

The Fusing Alchemist was only in his fifties or early sixties, at the eldest. That ancient man had been at least ninety. It was possible he was the sensei, and the Fusing Alchemist that had registered with the State was merely his apprentice –

But then again, the Fusing Alchemist was missing, and had been long before Scar had started killing State Alchemists. Many had suspected the man dead.

Perhaps he'd had a run-in with the Gate. If his sensei had known about human transmutation –

It was obvious the woman had, at some point. Given what he'd heard of it, and Edward's reaction when he'd seen the thin, impossibly long black arms –

Since you had to trade something every time you encountered it, maybe that was what had happened to her voice. Maybe it was scar tissue she was swallowing around.

Of course, what had she then gained? Unlike the old man, she had been wearing transmutation circles. And she hadn't transmuted a forest of arms, either. Just three. Three she hadn't been able to control independently. While one was moving, for the most part the other two were still. He wasn't sure if she had an amplifier herself or not, but if she had been using one, she wouldn't have had enough alchemic power to transmute herself out a cardboard box otherwise . . .

And the other apprentice, the young man. If Roy knew whether he had repaired the ceiling or merely lit the chandeliers, he'd have a better idea of his relative ability. If only the old man was using an amplifier, it would be bad enough, but if he'd given one to his lackey –

And of course, if the old man was slipping in and out of lucidity, and realized that the alchemist he was looking for was dead or otherwise not in Central . . . they could expect a hell of a fight when they found the two of them.

And Edward Elric had demonstrated he didn't have the stomach for that kind of fight.

Which was mind-numbing. As a twelve year old child he'd killed an alchemist named Majahal, albeit accidentally, then destroyed several of the Homunculi as well, including the one created from the transmutation attempt of his own mother. Roy knew from reading the briefs that Edward had reacted thoughtlessly when he'd realized his research in the world beyond the Gate was being used to exterminate humans. It had been a completely illogical move that, luckily for him, had actually resulted in his returning to this world.

And now he would barely use alchemy at all, fearing that it was wasting the lives of those that had died on the other side of the Gate.

His resolve to save his brother had once given him the courage necessary to kill, and to live, but it appeared now that his first journey was finished he didn't see the need anymore. Even when he was faced with his own death, he hesitated. Roy wasn't sure, if Edward had been alone in the room with her, whether or not he would have been the one to walk out.

And that was unacceptable. He couldn't take someone into battle he couldn't trust to survive.

Mustang took a deep breath, surprised to find that the ache in his head was slightly subdued. Getting his heart rate up, both watching Elric's short fight and even just moving around, had caused everything to throb deafeningly. That sensation was slowly fading. He wasn't sure if that was the painkillers or just his stillness, but it was welcome.

And probably something he should take advantage of while he could.

He focused more clearly on the first aid kit they'd gotten out of the back of the car, surprised at how it made his left socket ache. As if it was trying to focus muscles that weren't there anymore. That was just phantom pain and he knew it; he'd seen what the old man had removed, and he knew from the deepness of his pain that he'd cleaned it out pretty thoroughly. Just recalling it made everything hurt worse, and he gritted his teeth and unwrapped a foil packet containing an alcohol pad.

He wished the kit had also come with alcohol for consumption.

The only mirror around was the passenger side mirror, and he rolled down the window, readjusting it so he could see his own reflection. He was just going to pack the socket, and probably didn't need to see it to do that, but he did need to get the worst of the blood and other fluids off his face. If he was very careful, he might be able to hide this from the general public.

After all, he had a dozen eyepatches, all the same. Only his doctors and Hawkeye really knew that there had been anything left the first time around, so even if it was discovered later that he was without it, nothing would seem amiss.

The idea of 'amiss' and 'Hawkeye' in the same sentence brought him back to more pressing matters. He and Edward had left the house only ten or so minutes after Fullmetal had freed him, and both had been surprised to see his car was still parked where they'd left it. There hadn't been a car visible when they'd pulled up, and there were no other tiremarks in the loose gravel.

It didn't look like anyone had come looking for him.

And since Riza had confirmed with him the number of officers to bring, and gotten his bodyguards off his back to let him sneak out the back door –

Then what had happened?

And what had really happened to Edward?

Mustang held his breath as he inserted the alcohol pad into the socket, grinding his teeth as the stinging sensation built into something much sharper. It died back after the alcohol shocked the nerves into numbness, and he tore open another one, packing it in also. It would encourage more bleeding, probably, but at least it would kill surface germs. It was the best he could do, for now.

Going to a hospital, at least until he knew where the old alchemist was, was out of the question.

When he was sure his voice would be reasonably steady, he opened his mouth and spoke.

"Were you feeling sick earlier today?"

There was no point in beating around the bush; neither of them was in the mood to play games. And Edward Elric was no longer a child. Even if he was still the same stubborn person he'd been when he was eleven.

Maybe he wasn't, anymore. Maybe that was the problem.

He had no peripheral vision to his left, so he couldn't see Edward's reaction at all as he tore open a third pad, using this one to mop at his face. He could feel the thick, dried blood crumbling off his face, and he referred to the side mirror to make sure he was getting it all.

He'd seen the socket before; he saw it every morning after he showered. At first he had shied away from looking at it, but he'd quickly gotten over that. It was rather fascinating to see what his body looked like on the inside, and besides, once a day he'd had to apply salve to the remnants to prevent them from drying out. At least that time – and cost – was no longer an issue.

On the plus side, he could probably get a false eye, now. Maybe he could put an Ouroborus on it, and complete the picture.

"No," Edward replied into the prolonged pause, as if he'd been worried about his own voice. "I didn't feel sick until after we'd been standing in the chamber for a few minutes. I thought maybe it was the heat."

It had been hot, but it had been only a little warmer than the lecture hall earlier that day, and he'd watched Edward speak while standing for two hours without the slightest indication of sweat or discomfort. Obviously, if he'd been that sick, there would have been some evidence of it then. Besides, the way the apprentice had moved towards Edward as he'd fallen –

They'd been expecting it. They'd definitely slipped him something, but the question was when. And how.

"When did you ingest the drug?" Surely it had to be on the other man's mind, and if it wasn't, he needed to get Fullmetal to stop dwelling on the girl and start thinking clearly again.

Once the area around his eye was cleaned up, he went back to the kit for some gauze and tape. It was going to be terribly obvious until he was able to replace the eyepatch, but he'd have to stop by his home for another pair of ignition gloves before he confronted the old alchemist anyway. He could swear the soldiers there to secrecy.

Ed was even slower replying to this question than the last, and when he finally spoke, his voice was reluctant. "I've been thinking about that." He heard Ed's hands shift on the wheel, but he didn't look. Instead, he used his teeth to tear off a strip of tape, wincing as the usage of his jaw caused the pain to swell.

"I didn't touch anything you didn't," he continued. "Besides the car," he added, almost as if it had just occurred to him. "But I don't think the old man knew who I was."

Clearly he'd known Edward was an alchemist, though – or maybe not. Maybe they'd just pinned him to the wall like that because they'd already done it to him. His memory of being removed from the rock was foggy at best; he was pretty sure he was just propelled along the floor through the stone until he found himself against the wall of the other room.

And he knew that right before he'd passed out like he meant it, Edward hadn't been with him. Which could have been when the old man had checked out Fullmetal's armor –

Apparently Edward had still been out, as it had been news to him. The fact that he couldn't seem to transmute with that arm was a problem – perhaps the alchemist had done something to it, just in case? Maybe he hadn't been able to fully remove it, and had been afraid it hid a transmutation circle?

Either way, in an academy full of alchemists, how could they have guessed which he would bring with him?

Or maybe they hadn't guessed. Maybe they'd just affected the whole academy?

But how? He'd been there the entire time. If something was airborne, he'd have breathed it as well. There was no guarantee that everyone would touch the same doorknob, or –

Of course, he'd been wearing his ignition gloves the entire time.

Bradley used to wear gloves all the time as well.

So it was something Edward had touched.

Mustang carefully pressed the tape around his eye, careful not to catch his eyebrow. Even if something at the academy had been coated, there was no guarantee everyone would touch it. Tampering with all the doorknobs would probably get quite a few people, and technically Edward's had been a fairly early class, so it was possible no one would have shown symptoms before he had, but that kind of wide-scale attack didn't seem to be the old alchemist's style.

Edward's voice almost startled him as the man continued. "And I don't think the alchemist would have known you were coming to the academy to attend a class. I didn't." It was meant to add some levity, but his tone was still somber. "The only thing of his that any of us had was the envelope. I think it was on the letter. 'Anyone included bears their own risk.'"

Mustang didn't even pause as he finished taping up the patch.

It was probably as simple as that. Mailcarriers always wore gloves, both the civilian post and the military. All paper-handling professionals did. But anyone who read the contents of the letter would likely have touched it, and since Bradley normally wore gloves, he'd be immune.

The only other people that had handled it bare-handed were Fullmetal and Hawkeye.

That was why no one had followed them to the alchemist's home.

She hadn't gotten the chance to tell them.

Hawkeye had opened it before she'd given it to him, and had received it just as the class had started. The name on the outside of the envelope had made someone think it was better screened by his head of security before being passed to him, to determine whether or not it was an old piece of post containing sensitive military information, or just a smartass citizen. Edward's class had lasted two hours, which was a little longer than the time it had taken them to get to Mount Vesper. But there was no telling how far into the class she had opened it.

Which meant she'd probably gotten as sick as Edward had . . . just minutes after he'd left her there.

Which meant –

Which meant nothing. She would have collapsed in an academy full of people, almost on top of the military hospital at HQ. There was no point in worrying about it. She was either dead, or she wasn't. No amount of hurrying would change that now.

"And if that's true, it means –"

Now Mustang understood his hesitance.

"That we know why no one arrived as planned," he cut the other man off.

Edward didn't say anything else.

Mustang wet down the remaining blood on his face and skin with the last of the alcohol, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean it off. The front of his uniform was stiff with it, and he knew part of his exhaustion was shock. He was in no condition to take on an alchemist in a fight, particularly one with already amplified techniques. Perhaps he could try talking the old man down . . . ? He could bring Armstrong and Russell Tringum in, but it would probably be better to leave Edward with Alphonse. Knowing him, even with his brother missing he was probably finishing up his work on Cobb Street.

That was as good a place to leave Fullmetal as anywhere.

"Head to the east side of the city."

They were driving through some of the more winding hills on their way into Central. He expected the city to be within sight in around twenty minutes. He was probably fit to drive, and if he kept his elbow on the windowframe of the car and his hand over the missing eyepatch, it was possible he could get through his own security without their really seeing –

Of course, if Hawkeye had gone down without anyone knowing about the letter, and he had disappeared without a trace –

It was likely that by now the Parliament had been alerted that he was missing, and it probably looked like an assassination attempt.

Possibly a successful one.

What a goddamn mess.

"You think that's where the old man went?" He heard Edward shifting, but he didn't look over at the other man. Anger was coursing through him; anger at himself, for not waiting ten more seconds, or wanting to risk scaring off the alchemist with a military entourage. Anger for not listening to his better judgment and letting Elric come along. Anger for not being able to protect him. For not being able to protect himself.

When had he gotten so stupid?

When had he gotten so embroiled in politics that he couldn't see a bad decision staring him right in the face?

Just the fact that he hadn't noticed Edward tailing him should have been an indication that he wasn't as sharp as he'd once been, and now –

He forced a deep breath. It was probably just the shock, his exhaustion, and the pain talking. Losing his temper wasn't going to help this situation.

He had to think.

Clearly, this time.

"Did you recognize him?" Edward pressed. "You called him a 'renown alchemist,' but never by name."

"No," he responded shortly. Then again, if Edward was already past killing someone, enough to have put the letter and the sickness together . . . maybe he could use a nice, logical approach to everything.

After all, Edward had been out long before the alchemist had really said much at all.

"He said Bradley had fooled his sensei." Mustang swallowed as his voice started to crack again. He really shouldn't be talking at all, but soon enough he'd have to come up with an alibi and repeat it thirty times, so he was just going to have to accept that he was going to be completely voiceless in a few hours.

It actually hurt to speak. In all the years he'd been in the military, he'd never shouted so forcefully that he'd actually torn a vocal chord.

"So he was taught by someone Pride was using . . . to transmute a Stone?"

That would have made his 'sensei' even older than he was. Marcoh wasn't old enough, he needed to go back for several generations –

There was always Hohenheim, but he was fairly sure Edward's father had never worked for Pride. Considering he'd created a few of the Homunculi himself, and apparently been present shortly before the alchemist Dante had disappeared, he had probably been involved in directing Pride, not the other way around. At the very least, he would never have been tricked by a Homunculi into doing anything.

"What that girl transmuted . . . was that what the beings in the Gate look like?"

This time he looked towards the younger alchemist, surprised to see that Edward's eyes were clear, still focused on the road. His expression had eventually melted from the blank, slightly shell-shocked look he'd been wearing as they'd left the house, and now reminded him a little bit of how the young man used to look when he'd been given a clue on a Stone.

"Almost exactly. And I don't think she could have gotten that close from just description," he muttered. "But then why did she need the earrings, if she'd seen the Gate?"

It was true; she could have just completed the circle the same way other alchemists that had survived performing human transmutation did –

"Perhaps she wanted to be like her master, and not have to move to transmute," Roy pondered aloud. "I don't think the old man had a circle in his cloak. I never even saw the energy."

That was interesting, actually. That he hadn't seen the energy. Even with the Stone, there would be light produced by alchemic reactions. It was a byproduct of energy release, so unless –

Unless the reaction had been going on inside the rock . . .? If the reaction didn't have to travel from the alchemist himself to the point where he wanted to being transmuting, then the light produced by alchemic reaction would simply take place as the molecular bonds were broken.

So he was definitely using an amplification device.

And as talented as he seemed to be with compounds . . . and the fact that a fairly weak alchemist had seen the Gate, and the transmutation circle on the back of the letter –

Clearly he'd purposefully wanted them to think he had a Stone. But did he actually have the knowledge to transmute one, or more importantly, did he have the knowledge of how to create one without using human life? Had he used his assistants as payment so he could study the Gate, or possibly get something from it as an ingredient rather than human lives?

Was that where his legs had gone?

And once he'd no longer had anything of his own to trade, he'd started using them?

"So the energy never traveled from him," Edward muttered aloud. "When Dante used what was left of her Stone, I saw the energy around the rock serpent she created. I never saw Al using it, but . . ." He trailed off. "Is it possible he's not using a Stone? He's made something else?"

But what else would power alchemic reactions? If Hohenheim's theories were correct, and it appeared his sons had already proven that, alchemists had an ability to channel energy from the other side of the Gate to power their transmutations. It satisfied the principles of Equivalent Exchange as well as physics, which theorized that energy could neither be created nor destroyed, so clearly it was being brought into play somewhere –

And that energy was the energy released when a soul was detached from a human body. That energy was created when a human died.

What if that energy was created during certain other types of bond-breaking? Hadn't that been the theory behind Husskinson's fission bomb? Breaking certain molecular bonds released tremendous amounts of energy?

"It's possible," Mustang agreed cautiously. "He also said that Bradley had fooled someone named Timothy by changing his appearance, which makes me wonder if Pride didn't actually look the same every time he aged –"

"Pride wasn't that old," Edward interrupted. "I think the one we knew was actually the first version. He was called Pride because Dante considered him the most perfect of her created humans. He wasn't the youngest Homunculi, but he certainly wasn't the oldest. Envy was, and he might not have even been four hundred years old."

Pride had appeared to be in his fifties or early sixties, though the military records put him at forty-eight. Assuming fifty as a median, he was in the military for thirty years, records showing he'd joined at eighteen. So he would have needed eighteen years prior to that to wait to 'age' again, if he'd faked his own death and returned with a different face –

Of course, that was assuming he didn't look the same every time he aged.

"Timothy . . ." Edward murmured. "The only alchemist named Timothy in the State records for the last two hundred years was Dr. Marcoh."

And he wasn't nearly old enough.

In fact, Marcoh was in his late sixties, at the worst, when he'd met his end.

"How old would you say that alchemist was?"

Edward cocked his head to the side, slightly. "Ancient. Ninety? Older?"

Which would have put him in his forties, earliest, before he ever would have encountered Marcoh. Who would have been high on Bradley's radar for his work on the Philosopher's Stone, so it would make sense that would be the 'Timothy' the old man had referred to, but –

Something about this wasn't adding up.

"What if he's not as old as he looks?" Edward was the first to say what they were both thinking. If he'd known about human transmutation, had traded his legs and then parts of his apprentices to the Gate for knowledge or something else . . . well, hadn't Al left a piece of his soul in the Gate as a payment? Why couldn't someone use part of their lives? Ten or twenty years, twice traded, could result in the man appearing decrepit even if he was only fifty or sixty.

He had said a generation of alchemists. But if he had been ninety, Mustang would have been two generations removed, not one.

So it was possible Marcoh would have been one of his colleagues, not one of his students.

And if they were wrong about the number of times he traded years of his life to the Gate –

Then he could actually be the Fusing Alchemist.

Which meant the sensei he'd been referring to actually could have been Marcoh.

"He said he was looking for a childhood friend. The only other alchemist that was focused in an area of alchemy Bradley would have been interested in." And Pride had been single-mindedly interested in the Stone. If the old man had been working on a non-Stone amplifier . . . but what would have been the other piece?

Which alchemists had Pride singled out?

Dante and Van Hohenheim were off the list. All the State Alchemists were fair game, and likely, because it gave Bradley more power over them. The list of older National Alchemists that had attracted homunculi attention included Tim Marcoh, Shou Tucker, Basque Gran, Nash Tringum, the elder Armstrongs, his own sensei, Majahal . . .

Almost everyone on that list was dead, and if they had made something for Pride, it had probably died with them.

He didn't know much about the Fusing Alchemist, besides his proper name. Quite suddenly, Roy wished Sheska was tucked into the back seat. She'd have the answer for him in five seconds or less.

"He could be the Fusing Alchemist, Johan Irvin." It had been so long since he'd seen these records . . . and even thinking back made his head hurt. "He's been missing for over a decade. He'd only be in his sixties."

He heard the rather pleasant clink of metal on metal, and turned to see Edward was opening and closing his right fist, staring at it thoughtfully.

That brought up another question, of course.

Why couldn't Ed transmute with that hand?

He'd tried it twice, as far as Mustang had seen. Once to transmute the manacle on his right wrist, and once to decompose the carbon arms the young woman had been using to crush him. Both times he'd failed, though he'd completed both types of transmutation with his left hand.

Yet Edward always transmuted without a transmutation circle, forming the circle by bringing his hands together. He'd always thought at that point alchemic energy had to pass through both hands, but he supposed if the source was the body then that could explain why he was able to complete his circle while still being unable to then transmute through the metal.

The question was, what had the old man done to the 'automail' to prevent Ed from using it to transmute? It was easily fixable; a call to Winry Rockbell and a spare arm. But it was only five months into Edward's return, too soon for him to be seen wandering the streets with a human arm. And it had already proven to be a disadvantage in a fight.

Another reason to leave him with his brother.

"Something wrong?"

Edward fanned his fingers in fluid succession. Then he laid it back on the wheel. "Just out of adjustment."

They hadn't stopped to readjust his armor prior to their leaving the old man's cottage. Roy really wasn't sure how delicate the mechanism within the faux automail were, but then again, it was obvious the old alchemist had done _something_ to it.

"Mustang."

Roy glanced up at Ed's face, but the younger man was staring fixedly out the windshield. As he followed his gaze, he saw that they could now glimpse the skyline of Central.

Thick columns of smoke were rising towards the sun, concentrated in the center of the city.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Well, not much plot here. But lots of thinking, possibly a name for the old alchemist, and a guarantee that the action is about to pick up. Usual typo disclaimer and apology applies – they're in there. Watching. Waiting. I know it . . . but I can't see them. Like velociraptors in a wheat field . . .

(I think I need more sleep.)


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

When Russell hung up the phone, his expression was somber.

"Who was –"

"Alphonse." He ignored Fletcher for a moment, retuning to the bench and putting his gloves back on. "You and I are to report to Central HQ."

Obviously not the hospital, then.

Al watched the other alchemist hold up a vial of yellow fluid, carefully corking it before placing it in the wooden holder. When poured onto the table and mixed with white sand, it would hold form for a few minutes, but would then re-liquefy again pretty consistently. In a liquid form, it amplified alchemic reactions, but barely.

In a solid form, it was significantly more power. It also had a tendency to either instantly melt when used, or explode with a startling but usually non-destructive popping sound.

It needed a lot of work, but it held promise. Promise enough that they'd spent the last year working on it.

Fletcher looked between the two of them before understanding dawned. "They're going to declare martial law?"

That was a troubling turn of events. So far, the Parliament and military had hidden the Prime Minister's disappearance. Al was pretty sure the majority of the students of the Academy didn't know he was missing, though nearly all of them knew that something had happened that morning. They'd seen an ambulance and the faculty was being quiet. He had personally leaked a little rumor regarding a practical joke that went too far, and it had been enough to satisfy the less curious of the scientists.

Unfortunately, that was only a few. It was in a scientist's blood to be curious.

Either way, even if a member of the press had gotten to the Academy to ask questions, it wasn't as though they could get more information than that the Prime Minister had been in attendance, and someone had gotten hurt. Parliament was probably going to go ahead and address the people, telling them there was an attempt on the Prime Minister's life, and that he was safe and in hiding at this time until they could identify the culprit and secure the capitol. It wasn't a good story, but it was a heck of a better strategy than revealing he was missing and had been for about six hours.

Al also wasn't sure it was accurate information. However, he could respect that Parliament wanted to release some information before the press had a field day.

"He didn't say," Russell replied, cleaning his bench before pulling off his gloves. "I suspect they want us all in one place, just in case. All National Alchemists are required to report to Central HQ for orders. That's it."

"Hakuro." He didn't even need to ask. The only person who had the authority to command the National Alchemists and who would so quickly go against everything Mustang had assured them was Hakuro.

After all, Mustang won the Parliament's election for his military skills, not his political ones. It was an obvious move to try the same direction.

Russell growled. "I'll put some money down on that. But this call was put in by Parliament, not the military. For now, I think they just want their ducks lined up in a row."

Fletcher focused again on his microscope. "I didn't think he'd be gone this long," he admitted, watching a slide of a tiny piece of the solidified amplifier to see the exact moment when its cohesion broke down. "If he's really been out six hours, they could be halfway out of the country by now."

If they'd been kidnapped.

The fact that nii-san hadn't made any attempt to communicate with them was starting to worry him a bit, but it wasn't outside the scope of chasing someone down. Perhaps someone had merely kidnapped the Prime Minister, expecting Central to capitulate or see their dear Prime Minister murdered. In which case his brother could simply be waiting for an opportune moment.

Alternately, he could have already found that moment, and they could be on their way back.

If the sun rose tomorrow with no sign of either of them, then he was going to start worrying in earnest.

He had no real place to begin searching. Mustang's car had been found, empty, in an alley between the publishing house and the city press. It was an odd place for Mustang to have gone, considering he followed Parliament's policy of releasing statements only through their press secretary. Nothing in or around the car indicated a struggle.

Nii-san's car was still missing. And considering it was a Parliament vehicle just like Mustang's, Central was crawling with them. He knew the military and police were tearing the city apart looking for it, but considering Mustang's old team made up his personal security department, if they'd found Edward's car he would have gotten a call by now.

No such luck.

"Did you tell them I was here?"

Russell paused, glancing at him before narrowing his eyes slightly. "Now that was an Ed question if ever I heard one. You're not thinking of playing hooky –"

"I just didn't get the summons," Al responded innocently. "I can do more good out here than I can cooped up in HQ." Waiting for the orders to subdue the mobs as they rioted. Or to protect Central from an attack. Or to hang around in the background as a show of solidarity as Parliament made up a few lies to keep the panic off for a couple days.

"How do you figure?" Trust Russell to give him a hard time. Despite his rather questionable childhood, he had matured into a young man that, generally speaking, followed the rules. Unless Fletcher was concerned. "You don't know where they went. You have no way of following them. You don't even know what happened."

All of that was true. But for some reason, he just really wanted nothing to do with a conference room. "I don't know, I –"

Al stopped at an authoritative knock at the door.

Looked like they weren't just tracking National Alchemists down by phone, then.

That was probably not a good sign.

Al considered ducking into another room as Russell rolled his eyes and headed for the door. Then again, it could be one of Mustang's men with more information . . . He hesitated as Fletcher frowned at his microscope.

Sure enough, his slide was now a puddle of clear yellow gel, rather than the neat chunk of opaque rock it had been a moment earlier.

"It's reducing the silicone to paste," the young alchemist murmured. "All of it, the center as evenly as the surface."

"Maybe it has something to do with air," he suggested, cocking an ear back towards the front door as Russell pulled it open.

"Yeah, but if it's a reaction to air . . . then I guess all we'd need to do was find a sealant. A non-reactive one."

That wasn't such a bad idea. It would also help them pin down which component of the air was causing the reaction, whether it was nitrogen, oxygen, or one of the less common gases. Alternately, they could just put a piece of the solid into a flask containing pure forms of each of the gas –

Of course, that could be potentially quite dangerous. Physics had taught them that.

They could always use some kind of inert gas, and mix the proper percentages of atmospheric gases into the flask.

Any of the noble gases should work. Helium might be a good choice . . . "What about mixtures of helium?"

Fletcher nodded, glancing around the work area. Their benches lined a room that was nearly half the size of their flat, and it was crowded with shelves containing glassware, chemicals, and plants. Despite their current interest in the amplifier research their father had abandoned, the Tringums were, before healers, biologists. Plants had always been their first love, and their first skill set, and they continued to use them as filters, factories, and containers for all manner of substances. It just so happened that many of the properties of plants had also worked into their second interest, healing alchemy.

Incidentally, they'd also figured out a way to produce especially sweetened strawberries, so you didn't need to add sugar prior to turning them into strawberry shortcake.

Possibly nii-san's favorite result of the Tringums' work.

Al was pulled out of his musings by Fletcher's sudden interest in the front hall.

"What?" he muttered to himself, pulling off his gloves and tossing them at the bench as he hurried towards the front door.

Al followed him, in time to hear Russell's response to a question. "He was my father. I'm Russell Tringum."

Al walked into the front hall to see Fletcher come up beside his brother, effectively blocking the door. A rather high, undoubtedly old voice was replying, and he stepped closer.

"So you are, so you are. You won't remember me, I expect. When last I saw you, you were only this high."

Russell nodded politely. "You were a friend of my father's, then?"

"Indeed. We were working on something together. Where might I find him?"

Had the old man missed the word 'was' in Russell's first sentence?

Russell seemed to be thinking along the same lines, shifting in the doorway. "He died several years ago." He'd been murdered, actually, by Mugwar, possibly before the richest man in Xenotime had been found and manipulated by Lust.

"I'm surprised that was allowed. He must have already completed it, then." It was muttered, as if to another person, or as if he didn't think they could hear him. "Where might I find his research notes?"

"Who are you?" Fletcher's tone was decidedly cooler than his brother's had been.

"Terribly short of time. My apologies."

It was instant. There was no crack of alchemic energy. There was no flash of light. With no warning whatsoever, the foundation of the building sprang through the wooden floors, wrapping the Tringums up effortlessly and gathering them backwards, out of the path of the front door.

Exposing him to the 'guest' at the door.

Al had been correct on his first assumption – the speaker was old. Extremely old. He was nearly hairless, seated in a wheelchair and dressed somewhat smartly in a brown tweed suit. Despite the warmth of the late August afternoon, the rest of him was swathed in a matching brown traveling cloth.

And he wasn't alone.

Behind him, possibly his butler or attendant, was a rather young man, only slightly older than Al himself. He had dark, thin hair that hung around his face as if trying to hide it from the world, with his shoulders tensed and raised almost up to his ears. He was staring directly at the back of the old man's head, as if he'd been specifically instructed not to look around. His features were rather sharp, and his eyebrows were wide, effectively hiding his eyes from Al altogether.

Two things leapt out immediately, even as Alphonse brought his hands together. The old man, as bundled as he was, was far too small.

He was also quite obviously blind. His eyes were a swirled ivory, framed with drooping eyelids that had long ago lost their muscle tone.

Yet those empty eyes seemed to fix directly on him.

Of course. The clap. The blind had heightened senses. If he'd been silent, he might not have even given himself away.

Al crouched, intending to free the Tringums, at least to their waists. He made contact with the wood floor, but only just. Without so much as a twitch from either the old man or the figure behind him, his hands were instantly encompassed in more dirt and rock, that had shot through the sub-flooring as quickly as it had a moment ago. Dust and splinters flew into the air, and he reflexively closed his eyes, flinching back.

However, he didn't let it disrupt his own reaction. He'd been intending to transmute that material to begin with.

Alphonse immediately reshaped the rock that encompassed his hands, releasing himself and sending a column straight for the old man. He planned to use the ingredients that had surrounded the Tringums as well, but very abruptly . . . he encountered resistance. It was as though he was suddenly trying to move a mass of earth off the bottom of the ocean. It was incredibly heavy, and moved very sluggishly. Despite sharpening his concentration, it was almost impossible for him to even grasp the ingredients, let alone manipulate him.

Was this what it felt like when two alchemists tried to use the same matter? Normally speaking, the transmutation occurred so quickly it wasn't an option, and this one should have –

The column of dirt and rock had only reached half-way to the old man before it ground to a halt.

"Quite a talent you have there, young man."

Then the wood in the floor rose up around him, effectively trapping him in his crouch.

He couldn't transmute the wood without creating another circle, without doing the math in his head. The reaction in the dirt, strangled by the fighting alchemists, eventually died, and with a start he realized he was quite effectively trapped.

His column scooted to the side politely as the figure behind the old man tilted the odd wheelchair up in the front, rolling it over the doorframe and into the front hall. They passed the Tringums without acknowledging them, and the old man's blind eyes surveying the house.

"They appear to be the only three," the younger man whispered, coming to a halt as they came to the junction of the rooms. Outside of the large lab, there was a kitchen in the back of the flat, and opposite were two small bedrooms. A bathroom split off the front hall, its door cracked open.

"Speak up," the old man growled tiredly, as if he'd done it a thousand times before. "And longer. My ears are not what they once were."

"I said, they appear to be the only people here," the young man responded meekly, his voice only a hair stronger than before. "There is a laboratory to the left, and a closed door on the right –"

"Enough." The old man sounded disgusted. His head swiveled towards Fletcher, who was struggling against the rock and dirt that bound him, glaring daggers at both of the intruders.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Your father's notes, young man. Where is the library?"

"We're not going to tell you anything." Russell wasn't struggling, and his voice was dangerously low. "If you –"

Abruptly he stopped, grimacing in pain. The old man didn't so much as twitch in his direction.

It struck Al quite suddenly, now that he was staring at the man full-on.

He had no legs.

That was why he looked so small.

"I am ill-equipped to search them myself, as you can see." His voice was still oddly kind, but businesslike. "Very specifically, I would like to see what Nash was working on around 1903."

Fletcher was staring at his brother, who was beginning to turn red. Russ shook his head sharply the second he saw his brother watching him. This time Al could actually see the rock twist around the alchemist, and he hissed with the pain.

He was being crushed.

"Stop." Al was a little surprised to hear his own voice, and he deepened it to lend it more authority. If the old man was going by sound, perhaps he could throw them off? "Let my assistants go, and I'll give you what you've come for."

"No-" Fletcher's eyes were wide. It wasn't that he hadn't caught on; he obviously didn't approve of the plan.

And that was too bad. He and his brother had twice taken on the names of the Elrics, and they'd only returned the favor once, and in another world altogether. Obviously the blind man couldn't tell the difference.

"It's all right, Al," he cut Fletcher off. "I won't have you injured over my father's research."

The old man turned again, this time looking straight at him. "You're too young to have taken on apprentices." It was very disapproving.

"And you're too old for breaking and entering," he retorted. "Obviously you know my father was researching sensitive matters before his death. My time is too valuable for unannounced visitors."

The old man began to laugh. It was rather rough and wheezing, but it held a good deal of amusement. It took the elderly man a moment to catch his breath, and he turned his head back towards his shoulder, nodding. His assistant moved away from the wheelchair as if it had burned him, hurrying towards the lab without so much as a glance his way.

Russell was beet-red, but it didn't look as though the pressure being exerted on him was increasing, and he was still breathing. Fletcher was caught glancing between the two of them, still squirming in his own tube of rock.

"You've seen it too," the old man murmured, as if they were the only two people in on a scandalous secret. "Very young to have transmuted a human. Was it your father you tried to bring back?"

Al was stunned, but only for a moment. "Is that what happened to your legs?" Fletcher's lips had thinned to a gash across his mouth, but for the moment he was playing along. Another comment about their father, and Al wasn't sure that was going to remain the case.

Another barked, dry laugh. "Age . . . caught me unaware. I have a disorder of the blood and circulation."

So the old man was obviously the alchemist that had so effortlessly subdued them. But how had he transmuted without bringing his hands together . . . ? Perhaps he had a circle somewhere?

"Well, perhaps there's something my assistants can do about that," Al tried, in what he hoped was a neutral tone of voice. "That is, if you'd stop squeezing them to death."

The old man seemed to consider the request, and with a crack the rock around Russell shifted. He gasped several times before he caught his breath, glaring at the old man, but he no longer looked as though his head was going to pop off.

"Bid them to remain silent. Where are the notes?"

Al was about to comply when a timid voice spoke up. "I . . . I have them."

If blind eyes could look irritated, the alchemist's did. "When are they dated, Craege?"

The face belonging to that voice finally became visible, sticking close to the doorframe. His voice was soft and his manner of speaking hurried, as though he was both too shy to speak the words and in a huge hurry to deliver them. As if what he had to say was of no import. "1903. They were right out on the table."

1903 . . . was that really when the amplifier notes were dated?

Russell's eyes were wide, and he stared intently at Al, trying without making any noise to communicate how unhappy he was with this development.

But the amplifier was hardly finished . . it wasn't as if the old man could get more use of it than he already had. Clearly, as fast and as controlled as the previous reactions had been, he was probably already using an amplifier –

Al didn't think it was a Philosopher's Stone, but if the man had seen the Gate at some point, and knew immediately that he'd attempted human transmutation –

"My father's amplification theory? It's hardly of note. He gave up that research over a decade ago for something more promising."

Fletcher was gaping at him, but Al warned both Tringums silent with his expression. The moment anyone tried to use the amplifier, it either melted or exploded. If the old alchemist tried to transmute the entire vial of it, amplifier or no, it was likely to blow up in his face.

If nothing else, at least it would prevent the old man from leaving with the notes. They only needed to delay for a little while; HQ was expecting Russell. When he didn't show, with the paranoia already surrounding Mustang's disappearance, someone would be sent to investigate.

Hopefully they could delay the old man until then.

"Amplifier, you say?" The old alchemist was staring at him more intently, as if he could actually see him. Abruptly he withdrew his arms from his traveling cloak, revealing gnarled old hands, mottled with age spots. Still, he manipulated the chair fairly nimbly even as his assistant half-rushed, half-scuttled to assist his master.

Was it possible the mousy man was actually an apprentice? If they could both transmute, taking out the old man was not going to be sufficient.

Al watched them enter the lab, following them with his eyes until they were out of sight. A grunt from Fletcher brought his gaze back to the main hall, and he was surprised to see that the youngest of the Tringums was still struggling in the rock.

Surely he knew he couldn't get anywhere with brute strength. It was _rock_.

Yes, Al growled at his brain, clearly Fletcher wasn't that stupid. Did he have enough wiggle room to get his hands free? Or possibly together? Their imprisonment had happened fast, but it had looked like Russell had been the first, so perhaps Fletcher had gotten his hands closer, or drawn them nearer to his body in preparation for the same treatment . . .?

_Are you insane?_ Russell mouthed at him, obviously agitated. _He's already powerful enough!_

Al frowned. _It's unstable,_ he mouthed back, careful not to let his lips or tongue make any noise. _It's better than letting him get the notes –_

_He'll blow the place up!_ Russell looked pointedly at the front door, which the servant had foolishly left ajar. The moment a passerby was sighted, they could yell for help –

And possibly endanger that person as well. Al shook his head, not caring if the old man's ears heard. He said they weren't what they once were, but it had seemed as though he was using his man's voice bouncing off the walls to determine the landscape, almost like sonar. He had no doubt their conversation was not going unnoticed, even if the old man couldn't make out what they were saying.

Russell caught Fletcher's eye, but the younger man shook his head. Whatever he was trying to do, he wasn't there yet.

There were sounds of papers being shuffled, and the soft, low hum of the servant's voice. He was probably reading the notes to the old man.

Al craned his neck over the wood that covered him to the shoulders, eyeing it. The old man had had to thin it out a little bit to make it stretch, so there was also a possibility he could get some room to maneuver. Experimentally, he tried to straighten his legs. They were partially caught in stone, so he didn't get the strength he wanted, but he was able to push the wood around his shoulders almost half an inch.

But he didn't just need to bend it. He needed to break it. Once he could get his elbows room, he could withdraw his hands from the rock that surrounded them up to his forearms –

They heard the tap of glass on the workbench.

The vial of amplifier? Or something else?

Fletcher took a deep breath, then held it, his face vibrating slightly with the tension of his muscles. He was trying to compress himself, which meant his hands had to have been very close. Probably touching at the wrists or even the forearms would do it, the concept was to complete a circle, not necessarily with your palms –

There was a sound of a paper parcel being unwrapped.

Russell looked past his brother, catching Al's attention. _Can you get free?_

Al grimaced, trying to find a good place to brace his upper body. The edges of the wood were fairly thin, thus fairly sharp, and if he braced his chest he was going to end up slicing his own neck. He was already doing that to a point, but much more and he was going to puncture his own skin. _I'm trying._

The wood around him was creaking, and he rotated his head, trying to use his throat to break the thin wood around it to the point it was going to be too thick to cut him. He picked up several splinters for his efforts, but the sharpest edges eventually bent.

The tinkling of glass on glass reached them, very rhythmically. They were using a glass agitator to stir the vial?

Or had they added something to it?

Al didn't remember any paper being on the bench, mostly because the Tringums had little use for it. Most of the stuff they worked with was in liquid form, and what was dried was usually in a cake or a powder, almost always kept in tins or flasks.

An odd odor began to drift from the lab, one Al recognized almost immediately as ozone. It smelled very much as if there had just been a violent thunderstorm directly next door, but without any of the electricity necessary to produce such a scent. It was strong, but not overwhelming.

It was not a good sign. As far as they knew, oxygen was what was causing the unstable solid to return to its liquid form, but being exposed to higher concentrations than were in air could result in an explosion. Which could potentially take out the entire building, depending on how much of the yellow liquid was being exposed to it.

It usually took ozone a little while to react with carbon to create carbon dioxide and free-floating oxygen, but he would expect the concentration of oxygen was already increasing, if whatever they'd added to it had released that much ozone.

It suddenly occurred to Al that he was thinking of alchemy in physical terms, rather than alchemic.

"That amplifier is unstable," he called. Perhaps a warning was actually a good idea. "I would submerge it in mineral oil at this point, if I were you." Then he started pushing harder against the wood.

"Bradley . . . you . . . -madman." It didn't seem to be in response to Al's words, but rather an observation. It was quiet soft, definitely a mutter to himself, and it was followed, almost immediately, by an odd scrabbling sound.

The three of them locked gazes as the scrabbling sounds increased in frequency. A wheezed gasp began accompanying the sound; it was very clearly the old man, and he was quite obviously in distress. Russ and Al exchanged a look – should they call out?

Before either of them could open their mouths, they heard the sound of fabric rolling to the ground, as if tumbling off a bed. A heavy thud followed.

It was almost instantly followed by several more, growing wetter with every repetition.

Al knew that sound.

He'd heard men being beaten before.

The thuds continued, increasing in speed before suddenly ceasing. For a long moment, nothing else happened.

Silently, the empty wheelchair crossed the threshold of the doorway. The transmutations in the hall had made the floor extremely uneven, and the wheelchair gained speed as it rattled and bumped across the hall, crashing lightly into the bathroom door as it was brought to a stop.

There was nothing on it. No cloak. No old man.

Al stared at the doorway until a shadow crossed it. As silently as the empty chair, the servant stepped into view. His breathing was quick and shallow, and his light brown tunic was spotted with something dark. He was still not meeting their gazes, staring instead at his hands.

Within them was an opaque white crystal, roughly the size of a small vase.

Al remained silent, his mind spinning. Had the servant just killed his master? And where the heck had that crystal come from? Had the old alchemist somehow manufactured it using the amplifier?

The amplifier and what else?

Had he brought something of his own? Was that why they'd heard the rustle of paper?

The man's breathing was getting quicker, and he finally glanced up. He was staring at Russell, the one that was trapped directly in front of him, and despite getting a hard look in return, he managed to keep eye contact.

His tongue darted over his lips, like they were dry, and he spoke. It was hurried, but much louder.

". . . I can do this." Like he had to reassure himself.

That he could kill someone else?

Al strained against the wood as hard as he could, not caring when it cut into his skin, not caring that it made breathing difficult. God only knew what the man was holding, but it was clear what was on his mind –

Russell's choked shout was barely audible around the cracking of stone, and Al brought up his eyes, watching in horror as the rock that was pining the alchemist began to swirl around him, almost like a slow-motion tornado of mud. The thinnest strips of it peeled off the top, curling over Russell's head, and quite suddenly he was no longer in view.

But they could still hear his voice, getting more muffled by the second.

"STOP IT!" Fletcher shouted, struggling for all he was worth –

This time, it was much faster. Even thinner sheets of the stone, moving so quickly that they sheared a lock of Fletcher's hair from his head as they covered him. Both of the rocks were still swirling, a bit faster, and Al suddenly found himself staring at darting, dark eyes.

The young man began to laugh. At first it was hesitant. Then it was jubilant.

"I CAN DO IT!"

If might have been pathetic, if 'it' hadn't been murdering two alchemists.

The floor suddenly buckled beneath the young man, and Al felt the tremor run through not only the wood, but also the rock that was holding him. The stone around his arms actually cracked, and he redoubled his efforts, struggling for all he was worth –

The alchemist wasn't paying attention to what he was doing.

He was losing control of the reaction.

A deep fissure opened in the wall beside him, and pieces of plaster rained down on his head, trickling down the back of his shirt. Al ignored them, shoving with all his might; another few inches and he'd be free –

There was a thunderous crack, as if the apartment building itself had been broken into pieces, and Al's ears popped as the air pressure in the room increased sharply.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Look! Plot! Okay, not much plot. Some betrayal, and some screwing of our alchemists, but on the plus side, now we know what Bradley was trying to get the two alchemists to make. OR DO WE? :laughs maniacally: Okay, that sounded better in my head. I didn't find many typos, which means there are a ton. I'm sorry; if you find any, let me know so I can remove them from the finished product!

**More Notes**: I got killed by work. Really. I died. They had to bring me back with the zappers and everything. The rest of this will be posted as I alter the plot and revise, but expect more soon! I don't suck this much on purpose . . . I don't know when life suddenly got so crazy busy!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

It had been a mistake to bring him here.

Edward brought the car to a rolling stop, just staring out the windshield. The still-functioning part of his brain noted they were going to have to cover the rest of the distance on foot.

Rather ironically, they were only a few blocks west of Cobb Road, on Plantir Avenue, which Alphonse had reconstructed just last month. It was in ruin. Twisted lumps of metal Edward assumed had once been cars were grafted into the pavement, which in turn seemed to have mixed with the brick of the buildings like half-melted ice cream. The road resembled a child's unmade bed. It was impossible terrain for their car to traverse.

It was impossible terrain period.

Even if he'd wanted to, he wasn't sure he had the power to transmute that amount of material that quickly. Given the distance dust and smoke had been kicked up into the air, he would say the destruction began only twenty to thirty minutes ago.

Twenty minutes . . .

If this Fusing Alchemist didn't have a Stone, whatever it was was worth getting their hands on.

Edward was jarred out of his thoughts by the sound of the passenger door slamming. Mustang had pulled off his Parliament uniform jacket; it lay forgotten in the seat beside Edward. Its previous occupant was already jogging down the sidewalk.

Shit. The idiot actually thought he was going to fight.

"Roy!" Yelling for 'Mustang' or 'Minister' was likely a bad idea, considering he was still conspicuous enough in his dress white shirt and blood-soaked gauze eyepatch. But much like the last time parts of the city had been reduced to rubble, there were few civilians actually still present on the streets. Most seemed to have already fled; he could hear scattered automatic fire, so obviously the military was attempting to handle the situation.

Was he going to rally the troops, as it were? Or merely determine exactly what was going on?

An alchemist was destroying sections of the city. That part was obvious.

The question was why.

Edward hopped out of the car, suppressing a wince at his throbbing rib, and he made a fist inside his armor. He already felt guilty enough about how that fight had ended, and it was clear he'd been the one needing protection, not the other way around. He'd followed Mustang without entertaining the thought that he might become a liability. Hawkeye would still have failed to back Mustang up no matter how it happened, but –

But there had to be another way.

There had to have been a way to get out of that room without killing that woman. She was probably the old man's housekeeper, she didn't have the power to be an apprentice and –

Ed slammed the door shut, leaping a cresting wave of frozen cement and breaking into a run.

And there was no time to worry about it now. There were bigger problems.

From the look of the street, _much_ bigger problems.

Mustang had ducked into one of the twisted storefronts, a shop Ed recalled sold cigars. Its sign was nowhere to be seen, and there was too much smoke and dust in the air to smell the fragrant tobacco. He followed, crunching over shattered glass and dodging the largest cracks in the cobbled pavement. Just as he'd reached the half-collapsed building, Mustang reappeared in what had once been the large shop window, holding something –

A small box.

"You really think pipe-smoke will distract them?" he quipped, as the two began to run towards the sound of gunfire. How in the hell was he going to tell Mustang to sit this one out? The man didn't even have his ignition gloves. Not only did he not have a circle, he didn't even –

It was a hundred-count box of matches, clenched in Roy's hand. Not just a book.

Bastard just didn't know when to quit.

And neither do you, his brain muttered at him. You can't even transmute things properly. He'd considered twice shucking the armor, but now that they were about to charge into military central, it seemed a bad idea -

Mustang frowned at him as they hopped a particularly large chasm in the sidewalk. "Give it a rest, Fullmetal. I'm not in the mood."

It was the first time the man had made a joke, even one in a bad humor.

A small alarm bell went off, somewhere in Ed's memory, even as he slipped on an unexpected plain of mud. The queasy feeling had returned as soon as they'd seen the smoke and dust over the city, and it was getting worse with every step.

Mustang wasn't planning on just organizing his troops.

He was planning on taking care of this problem himself.

At this point, it was going to be obvious that an amplifier of some kind was in use. Even Hakuro would be able to tell that. Any hope of quashing the rumor of a Philosopher's Stone in use in Amestris was well and truly gone, so there was no reason for him to risk his life -

"Your priority is the civilians," Mustang continued, dodging around a piece of debris. They were about to reach the intersection where most of the activity seemed to be originating. "Protect them and get them out."

Leaving him to take on the other alchemist alone? "Roy -"

His voice was so ragged half the words were inaudible. "That's an order, Fullmetal!"

The repetition of his title got his attention, which was obviously Mustang's intent, but Ed fought back the urge to just shut up and obey.

It was extremely easy. It always had been.

"Can you even transmute in this condition?" Telling Mustang he was going to get himself killed was going to fall on deaf ears. He already knew that. And he couldn't well ask the man to leave it to him; he'd given such a good account of his own combat skills not two hours ago –

Even as he asked, the blood that had been gathering behind the soaked gauze of Roy's left eye socket finally spilled down his face in a thick tear. As they rounded the corner, Roy brushed it off his cheek with his thumb, using it to begin drawing on the back of his left hand.

So he was serious.

Ed let it go, slowing and eyeing the suddenly smooth pavement suspiciously. They were on Tracer, a large avenue that functioned to separate downtown from east Central. Despite the condition of the street behind him, this part of the city was completely intact.

He expected that to change immediately.

A few scattered blue Amestrian military uniforms were ducked behind cars, around the corners of buildings, even crouched behind the ornate parkway benches. Their target was walking down the center of the street as if he owned it, completely oblivious to the flying bullets. With every slug of lead that flew towards the strolling figure, there would be a sudden crackle of alchemic energy before a transparent polygon would shimmer into existence, apparently blocking the bullet.

Was he concentrating air to make them? They seemed to honeycomb around him in a sphere; Edward could see them flashing on all sides as the man walked towards the soldiers that were trying to cut him off.

And it wasn't just soldiers. At the end of the street, unmoving, stood the unmistakable shape of Alex Louis Armstrong. He was flanked on either side by two other figures of non-remarkable height, too far away to identify.

Possibly the Tringums. The corner of Tracer and Plantir was only two blocks from their apartment building.

He and Roy began running again, and as they approached the attacking alchemist from behind, Ed realized it wasn't just the man's walking that bothered him. If the old man had a Stone, it wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that he could have retrieved his legs from the Gate.

It was his hair.

The figure with his back to them was obviously a he, and his head was dark. His posture was completely different, but if he didn't know better –

He'd think it was the old man's apprentice, the one that had tried to slam a door in his face.

That's why it was such a mess.

This was just a diversion.

Clearly Mustang had had the same thought; the two exchanged a glance even as they passed the first holed up soldier.

"Find the old man!" He probably wouldn't have heard the shout at all if he hadn't been as close to Mustang as he was.

Even if the alchemist's assistant had an amplifier, with Armstrong and at least two other National Alchemists present, this wasn't going to take long. "After we take care of him!" The real battle was going to be with the old man, from what Mustang had revealed.

And this way he could leave Roy here, with the soldiers. If nothing else, he and Armstrong could guilt Mustang into returning to Parliament just to prove he was still alive.

At least now they knew how one man could be responsible for the half-dozen fires they'd seen, approaching the city. There were two of them.

It still didn't answer the why.

He heard an attempted shout, but he didn't take his eyes off the figure they were fast approaching. It was hard to relate this confident, unhurried man with the one he'd met less than eight hours ago. If this guy was able to predict where bullets were going to fly, and still solidify air prior to their arrival –

Transmuting faster than bullets was extremely dangerous, and extremely difficult. No one was brilliant enough to do so while continuing to walk as though nothing was happening.

Not even Edward himself. Every time he'd done it, he'd managed it only by the seat of his pants.

So this alchemist must be continually sustaining a sphere of air around him as armor, and only when the bullets struck and displaced the thick air did the reaction occur, recreating the 'tile' in his dome. The alchemic energy was visible after the bullet hit, not before.

If he truly was covered by invisible armor, Armstrong didn't stand a chance.

No one could touch him until that sphere was eliminated. It seemed to be at least five feet around him in every direction, allowing for plenty of air inside his bubble as well as some protection of the ground he was walking across.

But did it go under . . . ?

As soon as they were in range, he clapped his hands, dropping to the street. There was no point in feeling the situation out – he suspected anyone who could transmute and sustain a thickened cloud of air around them without apparent thought or attention would notice instantly, and if it was an opening, it would disappear. Again, Mustang screamed something at him, but as voiceless as he was, Edward couldn't hear it over the bullets. He was careful not to let his armored hand touch the ground, for fear whatever had been done to it would make his transmutation unpredictable.

If the man had an amplifier, it was physically separate from his body. All he had to do was use the dirt to strip the man down to his skin, then put some physical distance between the two bundles. He knew there would be a pretty extensive sewer system, so he couldn't go too far down without giving the alchemist an escape route. Perhaps pushing him up high on a pillar of rock, and letting his clothes drop to the ground below? That way, even if he did transmute himself an exit, he'd just fall, or at the very least have to scramble to transmute himself out of the predicament, wasting his advantage.

And it might make him drop the condensed air armor. It was that or be crushed against it.

Without wasting another thought, he gathered the dirt and rock beneath the street, sending it into the air in a thirty foot geyser.

Or at least that was his intention.

For a brief second, everything went according to plan. He was able to grab solid rock and concrete without delving too deeply into the city below Central or threatening the stability of the street, and he'd been right; there was no protection beneath the other alchemist. He could feel the ingredients swirling around a human body, and he added a twist, just to further disorient the alchemist trapped inside.

Then he started meeting resistance.

It was like nothing he'd ever felt. It suddenly took three times the energy to sustain the reaction. Very few times, even when he was a child, could he recall alchemy taking physical effort. On those times, he'd felt his heart pounding in his ears, as if he'd just run or carried an enormous burden.

This took physical effort. He could feel it in his chest, even before his heart rate went up. It wasn't just concentration.

He had never tried to complete a reaction with less energy than he'd gathered when he started it. He assumed it would fail. And even as he concentrated harder, blocking out everything, he could feel his control of the molecules slipping.

However, it appeared that whatever he was experiencing, the other alchemist was as well.

Ed glanced up in time to see the first ten or so feet of rock column shooting towards the sky, spinning rapidly. The amount of spin was the first thing to be slowed, as he no longer had the energy to sustain the momentum. It didn't matter; the condensed air armor was no longer visible, and to his right, he could see Mustang had his left hand raised, the circle on the back glowing a steady blue.

He was preventing the other alchemist from re-forming it.

From his crouched position he could see Armstrong clearly; with a roar the Strong Arm Alchemist pounded his fists into the dirt. The moment he did so, Edward could feel the resistance Alex met.

Feedback, he realized abruptly. They were feeling feedback.

The column stopped rotating with a shudder, and almost faster than he could blink, five strings fell away from the main structure like octopus arms. Edward abandoned his transmutation, leaping to his left and rolling twice before landing in a sprint. He clapped his hands as he came up, in the off chance the rock-tentacle had followed him –

Something struck the ground right behind him with enough force to send him sprawling, and he used his prepared transmutation to cause a wave of pavement to carry him away. He was only able to ride it for a moment before he felt the same resistance, and this time he didn't even try to fight it. The wave beneath him suddenly tried to fold around him, forcing him to roll to his right, and he clapped his hands again –

Only this time his right hand – his armored hand – was the first to strike the rock.

He didn't have enough time to bring his left into play before he was completely enfolded in concrete.

It curled around him tightly enough to hurt, and the rib that had been cracked earlier creaked within his chest. His right hand was still touching the materials he'd been intending to transmute, though, and he forced a hole to clear, tucking himself into a ball. As luck would have it, he'd correctly guessed which way was down.

It was just down a little further then he remembered it.

Edward hit the pavement hard, taking the majority of the force on his left shoulder and allowing himself to tumble to try to spread it out. Again, he managed to get his feet under him, and again, he prepared to decompose silicone, tar, and the twelve or so other chemicals that made up the vast majority of current pavement.

Luckily, it seemed the alchemist had more important things to worry about. His attention could only be stretched so far.

Edward took a brief moment to gather his bearings. He'd been spun so that he was now facing the end of the street he'd approached from, and should have been on the same side of the alchemist as Armstrong and his colleagues. He was shocked to see that Alex was no more than six feet away, bodily holding back the rock tentacle that had been aimed for him. He was crouched low over a fallen figure, facing away from the column of stone and using his broad back and right arm to hold off the rock as it fought to crush him, waggling back and forth.

The body that lay at his feet was a redhead, quite young, and someone Edward knew well.

Franklin Sorn, the Mechanical Alchemist. It was both a play on his flavor of alchemy, which was to transmute things that had a mechanical or physical function, such as a catapult, as well as his ability to regurgitate knowledge at will without an apparent need for sleep. Franklin was possibly smarter even than he and Al had been at his age.

And he had not successfully dodged his attacker.

To Ed's left lay another bloodied body, one that Armstrong had not moved to protect. A simple glance at the angle at which the man's neck was bent gave ample reason why.

Which meant Franklin was probably still alive.

And Philip Kirby, the Glass Alchemist, was not.

Edward sprinted for them, stretching his right hand out. The red glow of a decomposition began, and Armstrong grunted his thanks as the stone powdered behind him. The alchemist in the column abandoned it, letting it fall to the ground with a thunderous crack.

Which meant the alchemist's apprentice was now concentrating on Roy.

"Take him and go!" he called to the gasping Strong Arm Alchemist, and without a second thought he brought his hands together again, this time creating a column of his own. He would fight stone with like-sized stone.

Despite the obvious powergap, and the strange feedback they were generating as they fought, it was clear the alchemist's apprentice was not a seasoned fighter. He seemed unable to get his previous impervious confidence back, and he also seemed unable to give more than peripheral attention to more than one opponent at a time.

He was, however, striking out without remorse or pity. He finally had some power, and now he was going to make everyone sorry? Was this destruction no more than the petty, power-crazed rampage of a downtrodden assistant?

He'd killed Kirby. With one blow.

Was every street, every fire burning the site where this man had murdered a State Alchemist?

The alchemist's assistant was housed inside the column of pavement, staring out an arched window as if he was merely standing in a watchtower. He didn't appear to be successfully containing Roy, however; Ed could see that Mustang had broken out the box of matches and was putting them to good use. Even as he manipulated his column of stone to fall towards the other alchemists', a flurry of healthy-sized fireballs went flying at the transmuted window, forcing the alchemist to seal it or be burned. Angrily, he watched the young man fling out an arm, and another string of the column broke apart, mimicking his movement.

Mustang ducked and rolled beneath the ill-aimed swipe.

He also got himself out of the path of the column Ed was now toppling.

The two columns collided, the momentum of weight of Ed's forcing the other alchemist to compensate or lose control of his own. He used that opportunity to press forward, transmuting a throwing spear as he ran. When he had it at the right weight he hefted it from the ground, using the armor's leverage system to hurl it towards the man.

The apprentice wasn't a soldier. He had courage because he'd thought he was untouchable. But now that he'd been challenged, that false bravado was going to start shifting into the realization that raw power wasn't the only way to win a fight.

And it wasn't very likely the spear was going to get to him, anyway. He just wanted to scare him.

Hopefully they could get it away from him before he killed anyone else.

The column spun as Ed's rock crashed against it, spinning the open doorway in a lazy circle. Ed's throw had been true; it was the right height, and as the column came fully around, rather than hitting the frame of the aperture, as Edward had intended, it actually passed through.

There was no compressed air to stop it.

There was no stone to stop it.

There hadn't even been time to see it coming.

The column smashed to the ground, the force of it shattering what few intact windows still survived on the street. In the ensuing dust cloud Ed lost track of Mustang, and he turned to his right, trying to get a bead on Armstrong. Alex had accepted the order, and he could barely make out the giant man carrying a much smaller figure to safety.

Hopefully Franklin was just knocked out. In a way, he was relieved it hadn't been the Tringums, but the fact that they were missing, and areas so close to their apartment building had already been demolished –

Had they already fought, and already lost?

And where was Al? If he'd been working Cobbs Road like he'd intended –

Maybe he'd stayed in Central when they'd turned up missing. Maybe he was still in the Capitol Building, or facing the old alchemist.

The settling rocks drew Edward's attention back to the fallen pavement, and a brief but blinding line of yellow light flashed out, moving in a horizontal pattern from the ground to about five and a half feet high. Without context it just seemed current climbing a transistor, but the very sight of it dropped Ed's stomach into the vicinity of his ankles.

That was impossible.

Before the light had even died, a figure stepped out of the dust and smoke. In his hands he held Ed's transmuted spear. The handle was stained with blood. When his face came into view, Edward could see it really was the same apprentice. His expression was shocked, but it was quickly changing to something else.

Glee.

Edward had seen that reaction before.

Envy had used that reaction to change his shape. Or to heal his wounds.

The apprentice had just performed human transmutation.

On himself.

The man caught Edward staring at him, meeting his eyes before recognition lit them.

"Still feeling sick?"

And then he began to laugh.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Cliffies, cliffies, everywhere, and not a drop to drink! This chapter was HARD. I certainly hope it's not a bad read, but for some reason it was the hardest chapter yet. I have found a lot of typos, so I expect I got most of them, and I apologize in advance! I also apologize for the lateness. I can't keep my posting schedule. Stupid work.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

There was a terrifying strong pressure on the back of his neck.

Al remained absolutely still, afraid even to take a deep breath. If any of his vertebrae slipped, a sheared spinal cord was going to be the least of his worries. Without shifting, all he could tell was that his face was turned toward the right, apparently at an angle with the rest of him, and there was a tiny pocket of air in front of his nose.

That was getting more stale by the second.

Something was sitting on his chest, but he wasn't sure if it was his arms, or he was folded in half. Without shifting, without moving, he had no way to determine or measure anything. Either way, restricting his breathing was increasing the amount of time he was going to remain conscious.

There was no light.

There was no other source of air.

He was likely not going to remain conscious much longer.

Al briefly considered panicking. The fact that it crossed his mind as an actual option told him he wasn't as bad off as he seemed. If his subconscious could still be funny, all hope was not yet lost. But there was no doubt, if he remained where he was and did nothing, he was dead.

And if by shifting he trigged more wreckage to settle, he was dead.

Since he was dead either way, moving seemed to be the best option. He'd just need to do it . . . careful-like.

The first thing Al did was take a deep breath. The stone was very close to his nose; the water from his exhales was dripping off the tip of his nose, partially running into his nostrils and partially pooling on what he assumed was a shelf of stone. He filled his chest slowly, allowing it to expand, and there was a sudden and violent impact on the back of his neck.

It didn't hurt, and Al froze again, not exhaling. He simply waited.

He was now either paralyzed from the shoulders down, or he was fine.

Several small pieces of debris came to lie against his right ear, and he waited a moment more before he tried to wiggle a finger.

The finger told him his right hand was . . . somewhere. He couldn't even tell if it was in the vicinity of his chest or his stomach or his side, but at least he could feel his fingertip brushing something.

He released his held breath slowly, and repeated the process.

Then he wiggled all his fingers.

It wasn't until he brought his forearms into play that he began to realize where his arms were in relation to the rest of him. He was also aware that his perception was fuzzy. His body seemed to be tingling, and every one of his motions felt sluggish. So maybe he did have some nerve damage. Just rotating his wrists was exhausting.

Maybe it was oxygen deprivation.

Maybe he better get a move on.

Al dared to twitch his shoulders, and this time, when the wreckage shifted, it hurt. A shooting pain ran down the length of his spine, causing him to spasm reflexively, and that in turn caused more of the rock to settle. His upper jaw was now being pressured to separate from the rest of his skull, and he realized with a start that he was still basically crouched.

His position hadn't really moved after the alchemist brought the place down on top of him.

Of them.

The Tringums should have been protected, though, if they had survived being blended like very large fruit drinks. Their encasement had been quite a bit harder than his, his problem was that the mousy alchemist had just split without completely burying him as well.

It was amazing he hadn't already been crushed. The Tringums lived on the ground floor of a three story structure.

Al tried to pull his elbows back, finding it was impossible to do so, and another frighteningly deep pain shot down his spine, this time ending at the back of his right knee. There was definitely something between his arms, he couldn't seem to get even his forearms into contact, and Al briefly considered attempting to stand, to support all the weight above him, for just a second –

Al took another breath, very loud to his muffled ears, and heard the unsteadiness in it.

Okay, now he was starting to panic.

Bright light flashed directly in front of his eyes, accompanied by a deafening crack he felt in his lungs, and suddenly the pressure was –

Was gone.

Al remained perfectly still, relaxing almost against his will as his body started to slump into a previously unnoticed depression.

Light. No feeling of pressure.

His neck was broken. Or he was dead.

Of course, if he was dead, he should be in front of the Gate –

How did he know he wasn't?

He distantly felt his body slither into the new depression in the debris, made by the last settling, and determined that if he could feel that, obviously he wasn't dead. It didn't necessarily mean his neck wasn't broken, but it probably meant he wasn't quite dead yet.

Another hole meant another air pocket. Meant he might have enough room to transmute.

Al actively tried to control the way his body was sliding, but it was difficult. Things were shifting beneath him, slowly but smoothly. He would have expected pieces of rock and wood to give suddenly, dropping him a few inches at a time, but this was more like a controlled sinking in quicksand.

Maybe someone was already transmuting things for him.

When at last there was enough room above him, he managed to get both his arms in front of him. His neck ached a bit, but seemed intact, and Al concentrated as he brought his hands together.

Then he reached out, trying to determine the configuration of the stone as he sank.

It was hard. It was easily as hard as it had been when he'd tried to pin the old alchemist to his wheelchair. It took so much energy to rearrange the molecules, and he was exhausted. But he didn't stop trying.

And after a few long moments, he saw the pattern of it.

The pattern that was slowly drawing the matter away from an invisible line that followed the path of his spine.

It was sort of like extremely slow transmutation.

He joined in eagerly, concentrating his own efforts towards the same ends. Despite the fact that he was now certain another alchemist was helping, or he was helping them, the going was still slow. Somehow the particles of rock were gummed together, it was effort to disassemble them, effort to move them, effort to reassemble them-

A chamber of nothing finally emerged in the configuration of the concrete beneath him, and very shortly Al felt himself sliding directly into it. He twisted carefully, trying to get his right arm behind him before his left leg was completely released –

Everything was moving slowly enough that he was able to do so, slowing his fall so that it was no worse than rolling out of bed.

It still hurt.

Al lay flat on his back, feeling a rain of tiny pebbles and other small detritus, taking deep, slow breaths of the relatively fresher air. It smelled very much of earth, and slightly of sewage, so he knew they were near if not in the sewer system of the city.

Just as welcome was the sound of another person gasping.

There was still no light, and Al briefly considered consolidating all the phosphorus in the pavement to make a brief light source. Just raising his forearm off the floor was almost too much, and he continued to take deep, slow breaths.

Apparently the air they were breathing now was no better than what he'd been breathing before. He still felt dizzy, still tingled. Everything was still muted.

"Russell?"

Please let it be the Tringums. Please let them be okay.

No one else could have known he was there. No one else could have gotten him out so quickly.

Except the alchemist that had tried to kill them in the first place.

"Looking . . . for a way out." The voice was weak, and the speaker was panting. "We gotta . . . go, Al."

It was Fletcher.

Al took a few more breaths, preparing his body to roll over. Even that rudimentary tightening of his frame was painfully hard, and a brief spike of adrenaline shot through him. If it was just bad air, the longer they laid there, the worse it was going to get, until –

Fletcher was right. They had to move.

Al forced himself to roll to his left, encountering a smooth wall of brick. He used that to half-push himself over, then spent a long moment gathering his knees under him. Everything still worked, but not well.

"Which way?"

Fletcher just kept panting.

How badly injured was he? "Fletcher."

". . . way . . . you're facing."

"Get up."

He crawled on his hands and knees, knowing the ceiling was too low to allow anything more, until he encountered something softer than rock. He nudged it hard, getting a slight grunt – or maybe a laugh? – as a reward for his troubles.

"Gotta . . . go, Fletch."

"Yeah."

He clumsily patted the other man down, checking to ensure he still had four limbs and none of them seemed sticky or pointy. His hands weren't to be trusted, but it seemed that the younger Tringum was generally in one piece. He stirred at the treatment, rolling himself to his right, and Al helped as best he could.

"Bad . . . air?"

Laboriously, they began crawling. Al considered trying to transmute a quick tunnel to the surface, but even thinking about it made him want to just lay down in the tunnel and stop moving. He'd never been this exhausted in his life. Not even when he'd been bleeding to death, drawing a transmutation circle in a broom closet –

Nii-san.

Nii-san would kill him if he died here.

He'd come to the Gate to kill him, if he had to.

Fletcher said something, but it was too weak and jumbled to make out.

"What?"

" . . . –feedback." Fletcher muttered. "Everything."

Fletcher partially collapsed, but now Al was able to make out light. It wasn't alchemic light, like he'd seen when Fletcher had located him and brought him down. It was too yellow, and too faint.

But it was close.

And it was air.

But hadn't Fletcher just said feedback?

Was that what this feeling was? This overwhelmingly heavy sensation that made him need to just stop moving, stop thinking, stop breathing?

Was that what had been making it hard to transmute?

But how on earth could one alchemist cause another alchemist feedback? It wasn't a physical condition that could be inflicted. It came when alchemic energy that had been gathered for a transmutation was not properly channeled, and rather than all going towards the reaction, it splashed out everywhere, including back at and into the alchemist. If what they were feeling was feedback, then they had to be transmuting.

Al concentrated, clapping his hands before laying one on the floor of the tunnel, and trying to do nothing more than flatten out about an inch of it. He felt the energy he'd gathered going into the stone, and he felt it shifting as he took it apart molecule by molecule.

There was no resistance. It happened exactly the way it always happened. It felt the way it always felt.

It was still draining.

"Stuff . . . above," Fletcher corrected, trying to push himself back to his knees by balancing his forehead on the floor. "What . . . he used."

They shuffled forward slowly, and Al eventually realized the round lump of stone sitting in the weak beam of light was actually a form.

Russell.

"Find him?"

Fletcher made a noncommittal noise, and Al realized the 'him' in that statement probably referred to, well, him.

"I'm here."

The figure of Russell didn't move. "Hurry up."

He tried to shove Fletcher forward, but the young man finally collapsed, face down on the masonry floor.

"Get up."

No response.

Al fell himself, just a few feet short of Russell, and rolled onto his right shoulder, studying Fletcher in the little light they had.

"Fletcher."

He shoved at the alchemist's shoulder, and Fletcher shifted slightly. His face had fallen towards Al, and he could see long lashes reflecting the dull light.

His eyes were closed.

But his back was still rising and falling.

Al turned awkwardly to look at Russell.

The older alchemist had been roused from his slumped position, and he fell forward onto his elbows, pulling himself toward them.

"Fletch."

Al laid his head down on his outstretched arm briefly; it was too heavy to hold up. "He's out."

Feedback.

"What happened?"

Russell relaxed, laying on his chest and reaching a hand forward to touch his brother's face. When he'd reassured himself that Fletcher was still breathing, he removed it to his brother's hair. "I dunno. Something . . . about the transmuted . . . it's wrong . . ."

Al took several deep breaths, summoning the energy to prepare to roll onto his back. He made it there, and required another several moments to work up the strength to raise his arm. He almost wasn't able to extend the trembling limb to the low ceiling, but he could just touch it. His arm dropped back to his chest, where it lay for nearly a minute before it occurred to him that he was about to pass out.

Oh, right. Feedback.

Al brought his hands together, really more his fingertips, and pushed for the ceiling, intending the same transmutation he'd done earlier. One touch to the pavement, and it was as though the matter absorbed the energy like a sponge. He wasn't sure he actually moved any of the concrete at all.

So the alchemist had done something to the ingredients themselves?

"Its worse . . the longer we stay." Russell swallowed loudly. "We have to go."

But that was impossible. Matter could neither be created nor destroyed, and energy could neither be created nor destroyed –

But feedback was nothing more than unfocused energy. It wasn't a different type of energy, but it was certainly harmful. Was it possible to manipulate the bonds between molecules to slowly break down, releasing that energy?

Wasn't that what radiation was? The fact that he couldn't remember bothered Al enough to rouse himself, and he realized with a jolt that he'd very briefly fallen asleep.

Russell was right. They had to get out.

"Can you climb?" If they were in a sewer tunnel, they were at least five feet beneath the street. All Russell would have to do is stand, but he could barely speak, let alone contemplate forcing his frame upright.

"No." At least he was still conscious.

Al picked up his head awkwardly, glancing around. Now that he was better-adjusted, he could see that Russell lay not three feet from the hole he'd transmuted to the surface.

"Go back over there."

Russell groaned, which was very unlike him, and did nothing of the sort.

Al tried again. "Go."

With painful slowness, the elder of the Tringums managed to shove himself back a foot.

"More."

"I can't," he breathed. "I can't . .. get up there, Al."

Alphonse Elric slouched on his right shoulder, staring at Fletcher as he heard Russell push himself back another foot. It was enough.

The other alchemist hadn't transmuted the sewer tunnel. Even if he'd somehow altered the materials above them, what was below was truly stone and sand. It was brick, and he could transmute it.

Barely.

Al dropped his left hand onto his right, and from there made certain he had very good contact with the brick. Carefully, he concentrated on forming a cup, slowly raising it with Russell inside. He'd barely made his tunnel wide enough, and Al realized abruptly it would be easier to use the transmuted brick to break it than it would be to transmute it himself.

Carefully cradling the unresisting form in the masonry, he slowly elevated it towards the street. The second his brick came in contact with the material above, he felt the beginnings of that same, queer resistance, and he threw caution to the wind, summoning the remainder of his strength and forcing the brick towards the surface as quickly as he could.

Very distantly, he heard what sounded like voices, but they were too faint. He didn't stop transmuting.

Until he realized that he wasn't, anymore.

The reaction had stopped.

Al remained exactly where he was, idly wondering when he'd passed out. If he'd left Russell trapped half-way up the vent. If he'd cut off their air. It seemed lighter, not darker, but it was a lot of effort to open his eyes, and Al put it off as long as possible.

Fletcher.

That was enough to open them.

He was still facing the young man, exactly as he'd been before. Fletcher still appeared to be sleeping, and after staring at him for a long time, Al could see that he was still breathing.

So their air hadn't gotten cut off.

That was good.

This time the realization that he was drifting off again didn't really worry him, nor did the sudden dark shadow that seemed to fall over them. It was easier to leave his eyes open than shut them, and he watched the amount of light in the tunnel flicker for quite some time. When crumbling sounds reached him, he briefly considered trying to transmute again.

When hands reached him, he decided he was already asleep and dreaming.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Again, short chapter, because the next one is rather long and this one would get out of hand if they were combined. Boring, I know. And little development. But necessary to forward the plot. You haven't seen any lately, I know. On the plus side, you're one cliffhanger down! As per my usual, I looked as best I could, and found several nonsensical sentences, which means there are more.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

When he was finished laughing, the alchemist's apprentice hurled the lance.

Despite the fact that he was obviously green and definitely not a soldier, he had a decent handle on how to toss. He held the shaft as if it was familiar, and he had the right angle and even a little spin. If Edward had been unprepared, with the short distance between them he might have had trouble dodging.

Of course, he had no intention of dodging.

Ed brought his hands together and held his left one out, palm extended towards the approaching blade. As his own spear flew towards him, he almost lazily disintegrated it back into its base ingredients, letting them softly strike his palm as they lost momentum and fell to the earth. It reminded him a little of Scar, and he hoped he looked as impressive.

The first time he'd seen Scar effortlessly decompose something, it had scared the shit out of him.

Then again, that might have had to do with what the man was decomposing, as opposed to the nonchalant way he did it.

"All those years mopping floors teach you that?" Ed taunted, letting his hand drop to his side. His fingers were starting to tremble, ever so slightly, and he shifted his legs to keep his knees from showing the same. His skin was tingling unpleasantly, and Edward began to wonder if the alchemist's apprentice had transmuted something toxic into the debris that was now falling through the air around them.

After all, the other man could just transmute his body whole again if he absorbed any.

The alchemist's apprentice made no effort to hide how angry the comment had made him, snarling even as something darker surfaced in his eyes. "Same as you, huh? Looks like your sensei traded half of you to get his fire alchemy perfected."

So they were right; the old man was trading something to the Gate. Pieces of his apprentices . . .? Was that what had happened to the girl's throat? Had she traded her voice? Could the old man have somehow offered it rather than his own? Edward looked the apprentice over again, but he seemed intact. So had he never seen the Gate?

And Mustang as sensei . . . as if. There was only an eighteen year difference between their ages at most. Roy was barely old enough to be his pop. Then again, sensei had been barely old enough to have had a child of her own; Wrath would have been his age, if he hadn't died . . . But Izumi Curtis would have wiped the floor with Mustang. And she would have died before she'd have let him and Al sacrifice what they'd given to the Gate.

Ed considered his response. Interrupting a battle to talk wasn't his style; he'd never had trouble doing them simultaneously before. But he was feeling weaker by the second, and there was no doubt this guy was playing for keeps. And there was nothing visible on his person to explain why he was handing their asses to them so handily.

At least if this apprentice was angry and talking he wasn't transmuting large portions of the city into rubble. It would give Mustang time to circle around. Remarkably stupid of the alchemist's apprentice to disregard the intact alchemist he'd left behind him. Perhaps he thought Roy had been caught when the columns collapsed?

Had he?

"That one-eyed bastard? My sensei?" He snorted. Loudly. Then he shifted his stance further, just to make sure he was keeping the other man's attention. "Speaking of which, where'd you ditch the old man?"

"Ditch. I like that. That's fitting." The other alchemist tried to look as though he wasn't paying attention to Ed's posturing. "I did ditch him. It floored him, too. He really hit the ceiling." The second laugh was really more of a slightly hysterical giggle.

That was probably not a good sign.

"You remind me of Russell Tringum," he added, as if it was part of the joke. "I hope he wasn't a friend."

A new discomfort blossomed as a tightness in the back of Edward's throat. Russell Tringum . . . if he didn't know who Roy Mustang was, then how the hell would he know about the Tringums –

Nash Tringum. Nash must have been the alchemist the old man had been referring to.

Which meant they'd come to Central to meet with him. And clearly they'd seen Russell.

"Never heard of him." He brought his hands together, preparing a decomposition of concrete again, just in case, and the other alchemist's eyes brightened.

"He transmuted the same way." The other alchemist didn't twitch a finger, but he suddenly looked eager. "Go ahead. Try it."

Oh god.

They'd fought him.

Unsuccessfully, if the apprentice was here.

That was why he hadn't seen the Tringums fighting.

They already had.

And if –

If Al had been with them, as planned –

"Al," he muttered.

A spike of concrete appeared from nowhere, exploding out of the street at his feet, and Edward put his hand out reflexively to protect his face, barely managing to transmute it to sand before he was impaled.

"Attack me!" The alchemist took a swift step forward. "Fight me or I'll shred you just like I did to them!"

Them.

So it was more than Russell.

No. That was impossible. If Fletcher and Russell had been there, they'd have at least put up a fight. They hadn't been poisoned, it would have been a fight like this one, and if Al had been there as well, the three of them couldn't have lost.

Couldn't have.

"That where you picked up the amplifier?" he snarled, angry that he was letting this opponent rattle him. Maybe the old man had given them a different kind of drug. Maybe they were sleeping it off. Surely the old man wouldn't murder the sons of the alchemist he claimed was a childhood friend.

Surely he wouldn't have killed Al, either. They all really did look alike. Surely the old man would have assumed Al was a third son.

"It's not just an amplifier." His tone was so excited the words were slightly distorted. "It will never fade. It can't be used up." Another rock spike, this one so close the tip of it managed to scratch the soft indentation beneath Edward's chin before he could stop it.

Again with his left hand. It didn't go unnoticed this time. "How's that arm working out for you?"

Ed bared his teeth at the alchemist, and this time it was no act. "Same as always." He'd said that Mustang had traded half of him for alchemy technique . . . did he not know the automail was fake?

The other alchemist took another step forward, and Edward grudgingly gave ground. Mustang was certainly taking his dear sweet time –

"Hard to believe the same stuff can be such a burden to you and a boon to me," the other man hissed. "Attack me!"

If he'd done anything to Al –

"You don't know who you're talking to," Edward growled. "Hand it over before you get hurt."

He received a wide grin. "Oh, are you going to spear me again?" This time Edward simply guessed that the spike was going to erupt directly under his feet, and he dodged to his right, using the strength in the armored arm to complete a neat flip. His left leg held as he landed it, but just.

There was something very, very wrong. His limbs were beginning to feel like they were falling asleep, and he was so sapped for energy that he almost didn't care.

Maybe stopping to talk was just playing into this guy's hands.

The rock spikes he'd rightly anticipated faded back into the pavement at a commanding glare from the weasel-like man. "Were you not paying attention?" the alchemist snapped. "You already tried."

Edward clapped his hands together, this time preparing the same transmutation he'd use if he meant to reshape Central HQ in its entirety. No matter how resistant to alchemy the ingredients around him were getting, he needed things to respond more quickly. If he could knock this guy out, he couldn't heal himself –

Resistant to alchemy.

Like his armor.

The old man had used this amplifier to transmute his armor? But how had he done that if the younger man all but said he'd gotten the thing he was using at the Tringums'?

"You might wanna tell me your name." Ed let his eyes flash as he prepared to hit the ground. "So we have something to put on your grave besides chickenshit."

"Why bother? You won't be around to remember it."

Ed got the feeling the alchemist's apprentice was enjoying this. Like he'd played out what he would say in this situation a thousand times in his head, as he trailed after the old man like the puppy he was.

"As if I'd lose to a third-rate like you!"

As if Al would have.

Even as he said it he bent to the ground, hand flat to the pavement. He took ownership of the material immediately, wasting some of the energy of the reaction just to ensure a spike couldn't come up under his hand, and he watched with satisfaction as a sharp crack indicated the beginning of the enormous hand he was transmuting, literally at the other man's feet.

The extra energy he'd estimated he'd need seemed to fix the problem of the sticky ingredients, as well. He was begging for a rebound, transmuting like this, but it seemed as though the more the alchemist's apprentice transmuted the same ingredients, the 'stiffer' they became. It was effort to complete all three steps of the transmutation process, which was –

Was wrong. If it took more energy than usual to break the molecules of an object apart, and more still to glue them back together, then physics and chemistry told him that somehow this alchemist – or more likely his amplifier – was affecting the bonds that held the molecules together. Or creating some sort of new bond . . . ?

The apprentice went for his bait, forcing the fingers of the concrete hand apart to cup around his feet harmlessly, instead of crushing him like an orange. Edward fought him, trying to retain control of his own reaction, and as before, they slowly strangled the transmutation. The other alchemist didn't appear to either be concerned or conscious of the Edward-shaped mallet being transmuted, directly behind him. One bop on the head should end this –

Quite abruptly, the alchemist's apprentice was engulfed in flames.

He screamed, stumbling forward just as Ed's mallet came down. It missed him by less than an inch. Edward bit back a curse, straightening with difficulty and watching as the young man hit the ground, writhing. Well, he was unlikely to be able to concentrate through that, so being burned alive was probably just as good a solution as being knocked senseless –

The flames abruptly ceased after only a few seconds.

Mustang was going easy on him.

Ed glared to his left, finding Roy was limping towards him from about fifteen yards through a maze of large boulders. The remains of both of the transmuted stone columns. That was what took him so long.

He was also surprised to see that he was getting a glare of his own. It was clear Mustang wasn't pleased.

Ed ignored him for the moment, concentrating on the other alchemist. He was still screaming, curled in a fetal position on the cracked concrete. No signs of another human transmutation, or anything else. The young man was in no condition to continue fighting.

Now would be a good time to get that amplifier off him.

"What took you so long?" Ed half-growled, half-panted towards Mustang as he approached the smoking, whimpering form. He didn't know when he'd gotten short of breath, but every step was getting heavier. Good thing the fight had stopped when it had; that hand and mallet transmutation had taken as much out of him as if he'd actually transmuted an entire building. His chest ached, not only from the cracked rib, but somewhere deeper.

Maybe every alchemist did have their own personal Gate, just like Hohenheim had said.

In which case, he was begging his to feedback on him. Another transmutation like the one he'd just done, and he'd end up with a bum hand just like that circus performer Cornello.

Ed crouched wearily about three feet from the alchemist's apprentice, looking him over. His clothes were mostly charred; he'd been wearing a brown traveling suit, though the vest was now completely gone, and the white shirt beneath it patched in places. His trousers were slightly more intact, but his belt had of course been made with tannin, and thus become brittle when exposed to heat. It had snapped, exposing a strip of completely white flesh on the right side of the young man's abdomen –

Ed almost mistook it for a scar – and thus proof of what must have been traded to the Gate – when he realized it was far too thick to be scar tissue. It had a dull shine to it, and seemed to have several facets . . .

A crystal.

The amplifier.

But it didn't look anything like what Russ and Fletch had been working on. Theirs was a yellow liquid, and couldn't retain its solid shape the moment anyone attempted to channel alchemic energy through it. It would never have been stable enough to have been used in this manner. This opaque white crystal was also fairly large, at least the span of an adult hand. Not as large as the Philosopher's Stone that had formed within Al's armor, but significantly larger than the Red Stone Russell and Fletcher Tringum had manufactured under Mugwar.

The Tringums.

Al.

It might not be a Philosopher's Stone, but if it allowed this alchemist to perform human transmutation –

Edward flinched, withdrawing his outstretched hand as if Mustang had torched it as well.

He had not just seriously entertained that thought.

Five months into this 'normal' life, and he'd forgotten the first twenty-two years?

A harsh crunching sound carried over the pained moans of the figure in front of him, and Edward fought to keep his expression blank. He'd already given Mustang ample evidence that he couldn't be trusted in a fight. And Al and the Tringums weren't the only ones that could have fallen. Kirby lay dead not fifteen feet away. He probably wasn't the only State Alchemist that had given his life.

And not just alchemists. Soldiers. Officers.

Hawkeye.

No one could bring back the dead. Nothing was equivalent to a person's soul. Not even a Philosopher's Stone could resurrect the dead.

Not even a Philosopher's Stone had resurrected Nina.

But could it have? Was Al right, that it was just a question of resolve? If the Gate really worked like they thought it did, did all souls travel through it? Could a single one be extracted, assuming it hadn't been 'used' by the other side?

Edward tried to get control of his breathing, and he wasn't sure his hand was shaking because of his exhaustion.

No.

There was no need to question his theories on human transmutation.

No one could bring back the dead.

And he wasn't going to write off Al – or the Tringums – until he saw them. They were fine. They'd fought, obviously, and they hadn't won, but it didn't mean they were dead.

Mustang stumbled to a stop about ten feet away. Ed had no doubt the older man was prepared to deal the finishing blow, but he didn't think Mustang was going to do it. Once they took the amplifier away from him, he could be treated just like any other alchemist. More than revenge, they needed answers.

"Take it."

Roy's voice was no better than it had been earlier. There was no sarcasm, no doubt inflected there because he wasn't capable of vocalizing it. Mustang was probably just assuring him that he wasn't going to accidentally roast his hand.

Probably a smart move, considering they'd been working as individuals for most of this fight, rather than together.

Edward reached forward with his left hand, a little reluctant to touch the amplifier with his transmuted armor. There was no telling how the two objects would react to each other. Probably not at all, considering he seemed incapable of penetrating the alloy with alchemic energy now, but if the alternative was blowing his arm off, and he'd just finished denying the thoughts that had so easily crossed his mind –

The second his fingers brushed the crystal, they went numb.

Ed flinched, yanking his hand back and inspecting his uneasily-tingling fingertips. The skin that had touched the surface of the stone was turning a bloodless white, while the flesh surrounding that was already beginning to swell.

A burn.

He waited a beat for the pain to hit. So the stone also absorbed a good deal of the heat the Flame Alchemist had inflicted. Or perhaps the fact that the alchemist had been channeling energy through it had heated it. Again, if it burned the alchemist, he could always heal himself as he'd done before –

Bright light flashed in front of his eyes, and Ed shoved himself back as far as his trembling legs could manage, preparing another massive transmutation. Before his butt hit the ground he twisted, ignoring his cracked rib and brushing the crumpled street with his left fingertips.

They'd waited too long.

The alchemist's apprentice was healing himself.

He wasn't sure if Mustang had had a lit match in his hands. He should have, but if not, he wouldn't be able to torch the alchemist fast enough. And Ed had no doubt retaliation for the burns would be swift. He seemed to be the only one this guy was stopping to talk to, and he was pretty sure he could count on a little more gloating before he was killed.

Mustang, on the other hand . . .

It felt like he was creating a ten story hotel from scratch. But he needed it to be fast, as fast as a blink. And since he couldn't create it all at once, it had to grow out of the ground, he was likely already too late –

Ed landed hard on his back, forcing his head up to see the perfect rectangular wall he'd formed, directly between the alchemist's apprentice and Mustang. It was the very first barrier he'd ever learned to transmute, the one he and Al had tried to use to keep the river back before their sensei had come in the nick of time to stop the flood.

One of only two transmutations he could perform in less time than a bullet could travel from its barrel to him.

And it had been too slow.

Mustang hit the pavement only a scant second after he had, and the mangled finger of the stone hand Ed and the other alchemist had fought over was breaking in half, having been cleaved by the wall as it had sprung out of the ground. It looked like that concrete finger had struck a blow to Roy's left side; his body had rotated so that he landed hard on his left shoulder, and though his position was awkward he made no move to shift.

He was out.

If not worse.

But he'd gotten in a hit of his own.

Despite the second, far more severe burn Mustang had inflicted before he'd been hit, the other alchemist didn't give Ed a chance to get his hands together again. Edward was caught up in the same tornado of stone he'd originally tried to capture the alchemist's apprentice with, only he was stationary, and the stone was twisting around him like soggy cotton. It was incredibly tight; his mistreated rib finally snapped completely, shifting in his chest, and he would have yelled if he'd had the breath for it.

This was it.

Another flash permeated the sudden haze, and Ed clearly made out the charred left arm of the alchemist's apprentice as it was repaired. Maybe it wasn't really human transmutation; none of the attacks had killed him. It was probably just healing alchemy, but it was still far more complex than the most advanced healing techniques –

How could he concentrate through the pain?

A strong wave of exhaustion washed over Edward as the other alchemist approached him, like heat off a distant desert ridge. He swallowed back a sudden resurgence of his nausea, trying to keep his attention focused on the man in front of him. Off of Mustang.

He was down for the fight, anyway. So long as he stayed down, he was probably safe.

It didn't look like killing them was the point.

It looked like fighting them was.

This alchemist just wasn't pulling his punches.

The alchemist's apprentice was smiling, staring at his repaired arm with a look of wonder. When he brought up his gaze to regard the alchemist he had trapped in the rock, however, it shifted almost immediately to the previous anger.

"You've seen the Gate," he hissed, as if it was an accusation. "Tell me you've seen it!"

Edward tried to take a better breath, wincing at a sharp pain in the left side of his chest. Apparently that was shifting the rib. It was hard enough to breathe with as tightly as he was bound, and the very air seemed to be sapping his strength.

It was in the ingredients. Whatever it was, feedback or some kind of alchemic energy, it was in the rock he was surrounded with.

He wondered how much of this feedback an alchemist could absorb before it permanently damaged them.

"Is that – what this is about?" Was that why this guy was so fixated with him? "The old man . . . wouldn't take you with him?"

Didn't he realize how lucky that was?

The other alchemist's eyes narrowed, and he wiped the sweat off his right temple. "You don't think I'm good enough either, do you. You don't think I could have handled it." The rocks tightened in response to the alchemist's anger, and Ed almost blacked out.

"He even took her." The voice seemed distant. "And I could transmute circles around Cassie. She was supposed to stop you from leaving." The last seemed added as an afterthought.

Cassie. The girl without a voice. That was her name. "I – killed her." They didn't sound as if they'd been close, but maybe either angering this alchemist further, or shocking him, might give him another opening –

He heard a laugh. "I'm not surprised. She was worthless." Oddly, the concrete seemed to relax around him, and Edward managed to open his eyes.

The alchemist was staring at his hands, clenching and unclenching them with a look of confusion. There was another flash of light, this time to his hands, and then he nodded to himself, dropping them. The second he did it, the exposed skin of Edward's face tingled unpleasantly, and his head increased in weight by twenty pounds.

It was getting worse, every time the alchemist healed himself.

Ed blinked, fighting to hold onto that train of thought. The amplifier was altering the bonds of the molecules it forced into different configurations. In essence, it was making things more resistant to alchemy.

And he was using it to transmute his body.

"Stop." The word choked him, and Ed swallowed with difficulty. "You're –killing yourself."

He was making his own body resistant to alchemy. He was also making it cause him feedback. Ed was fairly sure distance played a part in this feedback, but you couldn't escape your own flesh and blood. It would probably eventually diminish on its own, if it was some kind of energy bond breaking down, but the question was how much damage it would do before then. And the more he did it, the worse it was going to get.

The alchemist's eyes sharpened, but he sneered the comment away. "You still think you can fight? Or are you referring to your sensei?" The man glanced behind him.

"Not my sensei -" He couldn't get much volume behind it, but he ground it out as quickly as he could. Mustang hadn't so much as twitched, but it didn't mean the other man wouldn't finish him off.

"I don't believe you," the other alchemist taunted, turning back and wiping at his right eye again. "He was more worried about his puking apprentice than he was his own hide." A calculating look. "And you're just the same."

"Why . . ." He couldn't find the energy to complete the question, but it didn't matter. The other man would know what he was asking. If he kept him talking, he was probably going to succumb to his own symptoms. The man seemed to be sweating more profusely now, though it was hard to tell if he was any more pale.

"Why what?" The other alchemist shoved his face into his. "Why am I doing this? Because I can. Because I _am_ on par with State Alchemists!"

". . . not."

"You don't think so?" He straightened suddenly. "We're the same age, and you're a State Alchemist, right? You've seen the Gate. You transmute without a circle. And I STILL BEAT YOU!"

"Think . . . so?" He fought for a deep enough breath to talk. "You're already dead, idiot."

The other alchemist wiped his face again, the gesture swift and angry. "So are you," he snapped.

Then things started happening very quickly.

A ribbon of the stone, as thin as a sheet of paper and an inch wide, rose from the mound surrounding him. It swiftly coiled around until it was facing him, sharpening itself into a point.

Right around the same time, two bulletholes exploded out of the alchemist's chest.

Ed stared at the other alchemist in shock before the report of the gun registered, and then yanked his head as far to the left as his concrete prison would let him. He'd been right to dodge; the other alchemist had decided to finish him off this time before he healed himself, and he felt the slightest catch of something on his right cheekbone.

Given how razor-thin that strip of concrete was, he'd probably just been cut to the bone.

The afternoon light disappeared altogether as countless ribbons of stone rose above his head, all curling down like streamers to fall around him. He felt several impacts, but surprisingly little pain, and his stomach lurched at a sudden falling sensation.

It hurt a lot less than the last time he'd died.

Light returned, on the other side of his closed eyelids, and there seemed to be an indistinct roaring. It drowned even itself out, and Ed relaxed, waiting patiently for something more interesting to happen. He didn't really want to open his eyes. Every time the Gate struck, it always waited until you realized it was there and had just enough time to conclude that you were screwed. He wasn't sure what would happen if he just refused to acknowledge it at all.

But what if Al was there . . .?

He felt something touching him, and pain returned as he was ungently yanked to the side. His eyes flew open as his rib shifted again, and he found himself watching rubble whizzing past.

And a leg. A blue one.

A military uniform.

He was being carried.

He was being carried rather unceremoniously, actually, over someone's shoulder, and at a respectable pace.

Another alchemist, then? Someone had gotten him out of the concrete? It wasn't Mustang, obviously, and Al never wore his uniform –

His right eye began to burn, and he squeezed them both shut, lest more blood get into them.

" - get Mustang." It was hard to get enough volume, between the shoulder digging into his stomach and his jostled ribcage, but he did the best he could. Even if it wasn't an alchemist carrying him, at least one more had joined the fight. Whoever it was might provide enough cover to let this soldier get back in there.

Abruptly they halted, and he was eased down the man's shoulder. It was massive; he felt like he was sliding off a ventilation shaft. He cracked his eyes open again when he assumed he was upright, though his right refused to do more than squint.

"Edward Elric!" Even if he couldn't see the bald head and the blonde curl, the voice gave him away.

Of course.

He'd taken Franklin somewhere safe, and then come back for them.

"Mustang," he repeated. He shouldn't have had to; Alex Armstrong had seen Mustang fighting. He should have known the Prime Minister was still out there.

The Strong Arm Alchemist just nodded, lowering Ed fully to the ground. Ed found the rubble to be very comfortable, and let his head loll to the left as Armstrong took off again, in the direction of the battle. There was the familiar flash of bright yellow light, and he could make out the other alchemist, arms wrapped around his chest. Almost immediately there was another flash of light, again starting at his feet and working its way up, and when the light faded, the alchemist hadn't changed positions.

Armstrong took advantage, stopping his sprint to slam his fists into the ground, and various battering rams bearing the Armstrong family bust erupted from the ground at all sides of the other alchemist, meeting in the center. Almost before they struck Ed saw another attempt at healing transmutation begin, and he watched almost impassively as Armstrong picked himself up off the ground, his back heaving.

The effort it must have taken to accomplish that attack was staggering.

Probably as much as it had taken to get him out of that concrete coffin so quickly.

He was still glancing over the battlefield, obviously searching for Mustang, and a strangled cry cut through the odd roar in Ed's ears. The alchemist had survived Armstrong's attack, but he'd fallen to one knee, his arms still wrapped around him. His head was bowed, but he was clearly the source of the sound, and he shuddered twice in rapid succession.

Motion caught Ed's attention, and he lowered his chin slightly, watching three uniformed soldiers approaching, all with weapons drawn. They seemed vaguely familiar-shaped, but before he could pin them down another flash of light brought his attention back to the alchemist's apprentice.

And another.

And another.

Didn't he realize what he was doing?

Edward closed his eyes as the repetition of the flashes increased in frequency. It was probably too late the first time he'd done it, actually. The fact that he'd been forced to heal himself so many times thereafter had just sealed his fate.

It wouldn't matter if he had access to that amplifier. It obviously couldn't be used to perform successful human transmutation.

A particularly strong light flared up, and Ed opened his eyes in time to see it fade to nothing.

Literally, nothing.

There was no alchemist, crouched on the ground anymore.

Instead, he saw a few dark lumps on the ground, and only a few inches from them, an opaque white crystal, about eight inches long.

He felt the familiar, unpleasant tingling again, and Edward turned his face away. He was right; it was directional. He could feel it on the left side of his face like sunlight.

And he was at least twenty yards away.

Was the feedback effect cumulative? Did it increase the more the amplifier was used to transmute the same ingredients? Did it make the bonds the amplifier created more powerful? Was that why the ingredients that had been transmuted twice were even harder to manipulate than before?

In that case, the remains of the alchemist were going to be by far the worst, considering how many times they'd been transmuted.

If he could feel the effects so instantly, from here –

Armstrong needed to get out of there.

Everyone did.

He watched Alex stumble, and the blue uniforms hurried to him. The short, stocky one was undoubtedly Breda, but he didn't recognize the other two. He thought about opening his mouth, to warn them away, but it was a lot of effort and they wouldn't hear him anyway. The tingling was making his skin numb, and it was getting hard to remember to breathe.

Mustang. Had they seen Mustang yet?

The two uniforms suddenly left Armstrong, heading in the right direction with a shout. They ran without stumbling, their voices were energetic and filled with urgency.

Couldn't they feel it?

"Edward!"

Small rocks scattered as someone approached him, from behind, but he couldn't be bothered to turn his head. He just watched in confusion as Breda started trying to help Armstrong to his feet. Alex was barely able to lend assistance at this point; he was more than half-carried by the bury soldier, but Breda didn't collapse beneath the weight of the Strong Arm Alchemist and his proximity to the remains.

He shouldn't have been able to walk, let alone carry the massive weight of the Brigadier General.

Why wasn't he affected?

"Oh my god –"

Someone very rudely took hold of his face, tiling it towards the sky, and Ed didn't even have the energy to frown as Kain Fuery swam into view.

"Edward! Ed, can you hear me!?"

Of course he could. He was awake, wasn't he?

Sluggishly he realized he probably didn't look it. He probably looked like he was staring off into space, and he was pretty sure half his face was covered in blood. He tried to opened his mouth to reassure the other officer, but found that was too difficult to do, so he gave up. Fuery would eventually find a pulse.

No. Mustang. He had to tell them to get Mustang.

"Hang on, Edward. Help's on the way!"

It wasn't like he was dying –

Ed tried to turn his head, to make sure the other officers had found Mustang, but he found he couldn't fight Fuery's rock-solid hold on him.

This was ridiculous.

His anger at himself finally gave him enough strength to speak. "Roy-"

Kain looked like he was about to start crying with relief. "They've got him. Don't try to talk. You're going to be fine."

He was babbling, as energetic as usual, and Edward stared at him. He didn't seem to be feeling the effects, either.

What the hell was going on?

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Well, gee, if I didn't end up with more questions than answers. At least the Reign Of OCs™ has been ended. I looked through, but I've re-written this chapter countless times, so I probably can't see anything at this point. Which means there are typos everywhere. Many apologies to Silverfox for the lateness, but hopefully the length makes up for it . . .?


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

The sound was so familiar and so comfortable that it took him a while to realize it was out of place.

Edward Elric hesitated, knowing he was more than halfway awake. If he tried to open his eyes, this pleasant dream would completely evaporate. He would no longer feel as if he was floating, no longer be warm and content to remain unmoving, listening to the soft and rhythmic sound of his brother sleeping beside him.

Just thinking about it brought him closer to consciousness, and he clung to his flight of fantasy stubbornly. He knew it wasn't real; it couldn't be. They'd long ago left Germany, hadn't they? There'd be no reason to be sharing a bed, no reason to even be sharing a room. Unless they both fell asleep over their research, which almost never happened –

Al.

Edward blinked, surprised to find his eyelashes glued together. A few more attempted squints made very little progress, and he stretched his eyebrows up, trying to pry everything open –

A sharp pain shot across his face, and he winced.

So much for dreaming.

He brought his left hand up, intent on rubbing his eyes, but was only able to move it a few inches before a much deeper twinge radiated through his back, stilling him instantly. It faded quickly as soon as he stopped moving, just as the ache in his face had done. Despite the discomfort, he still felt a little like he was floating. It wasn't the same removed sensation he recalled feeling when he'd been poisoned; this was almost pleasant.

Painkillers.

A pretty good dose, considering how quickly they'd calmed the throbbing in his cheekbone.

And despite the fact that he was now certain he was wide awake, he could still hear the gentle, slow exhale beside him. On his right.

That was what had struck him as out of place. Not the fact that it was Al, but the fact it was on his right side.

Al had always taken the left side of the bed, when they'd been forced to share one. Ed preferred the right, so he could sleep on his automail to keep it warm on chilly nights without accidentally hogging the mattress.

The wince had broken up enough of the salt on his eyelashes to pry them open. Or was it dried blood? The last thing he could really recall was Fuery –

Al was really there?

There was only dim ambient light, though the brightest glow seemed to come from his right. He turned unthinkingly in that direction, slightly surprised when his right shoulder began to ache, but he forgot it almost immediately.

There was indeed an Al-shaped silhouette, straddling the wooden chair beside his bed. He was sitting it backwards, with his arms folded over the back and pillowing his chin. He looked like he'd been there a while; his long brown-blonde hair was undone and hung around his shoulders like a mantle.

Ed watched him for a moment, half-afraid he was still dreaming, more than half-relieved to see him. Very little of him was visible, but if he was able to sit there and sleep, he was fine.

He was fine.

Ed let his head roll back into the depression in the pillow, finally recognizing the room. Recognizing the hospital, at any rate; the same one he'd woken up in after Al had transmuted them out of Germany. Hopefully he'd gotten the same doctor. Otherwise he was going to have to explain the automail, since it would be obvious at a glance that the port wasn't quite right –

Edward picked up his head slightly, this time expecting the searing but shallow pain in his right cheek. His shoulder had hurt, hadn't it? A glance at it revealed that the metal was still present, but that it was bare.

All of him was, beneath the light summer sheet.

So either he had the same doctor, or he'd forced one of the guys to chase the docs around with a clipboard, swearing them to secrecy. Fuery might have done it, if he'd been the one to call for a medic –

Mustang. Had they –

He'd said so, hadn't he? Which meant the bastard was probably somewhere nearby.

Edward glanced around the room, noting that it wasn't a private one; there was another bed to his left, unoccupied. What he assumed was moonlight was shining in the small window, illuminating rumpled sheets. A shadow seemed to flit across the room, and Ed turned back towards the door. The hall light outside was a bright yellow, and while the door was mostly closed, if he concentrated he could hear the bustle of an active ward.

He didn't have the place to himself this time, obviously.

That was probably not a good sign.

There was a deep sigh beside him, and Ed looked over to see Al pick up his chin. He couldn't make out his brother's expression, but after a second Al froze.

"Hey," Ed offered, in case Al couldn't tell he was awake.

Al cleared his throat, straightening slightly before rubbing the back of his neck. "Ow."

Maybe not quite as fine as he looked . . .? "What time is it?"

Al continued to massage the back of his neck while fishing his pocketwatch out of his trouser pocket. "About midnight. I'm surprised you didn't sleep till morning."

Ed blinked. Midnight was a good eight hours after the last time he could recall anything. "You okay?"

"I'm good." It was much more awake, and fairly cheerful. "Just don't ask me to turn my head," he added drolly, tucking his watch, and the only physical symbol of his National Alchemy certification, back into his pocket. Then he straightened, and Ed could almost feel the gaze focus on him. "How are you feeling?"

Ed watched his younger brother unfold himself from the chair, walking across the room to turn on a lamp. The light was bright, but not painfully so, and Edward just stared at him.

"You take a dirt bath?" he finally commented.

Al was a disaster. His ivory shirt was no longer ivory; it was right around the same color as his pants, which were a little darker brown than he remembered them being. Al's face and hands were scrubbed clean, and as he returned to the bedside, Ed could see small, angry cuts across his brother's neck and collarbone.

"Yeah, I did," he admitted, turning the chair around properly and retaking his seat. "And you're changing the subject."

Edward gave his brother a dirty look, and tried to sit up. The previously bearable ache in his back spiked with startling intensity, and Ed swallowed a curse, easing his weight onto the armor. That resulted in more pain, not less, and he growled in irritation as he gave up, dropping back to the mattress.

What the hell . . .?

Al hissed for him, leaning forward but not putting a hand on him. "Take it easy, nii-san! You were nearly cut to pieces."

One scratch on his cheek, and he was making a big deal –

His right shoulder hurt.

It hurt a lot.

But the armor was still there . . .

Ed glanced at his shoulder, shocked to see a rough, poorly filed puncture through the top of the shoulderpiece that made up the false port. He wiggled the shoulder experimentally, trying to gauge the depth of the wound. The surface pulled oddly, which meant stitches, and beneath that was an ache he'd long ago associated with Winry's drill.

The rock ribbons. He remembered feeling a few impacts before Armstrong had gotten him out, but they hadn't hurt –

They'd been so sharp, and he'd been so far removed . . .

Shit.

"Shit."

No wonder Fuery had been so concerned. He'd probably been bleeding all over the place.

"That's what I said," Al half-growled. "Before you get any other bright ideas, you've also got about thirty stitches in your back and a concussion."

Edward tried to relax, letting the drugs take the edge off. But his mind was whirling, a thousand questions and he wasn't even sure which one to ask first –

The Tringums.

"Al, what about Russ and Fletch –"

"They're fine." His tone was soothing. Already predicting the barrage, apparently. "Just tired. Russell's been at it since about six pm, Fletcher went out to relieve him an hour ago."

At it . . . ? Relieve him? That explanation could wait. "What about Hawkeye?" Obviously he hadn't died from the compound, but he could have, which meant she could have –

"She's fine too. Last I saw, she was sleeping off the rest of the poison . . ." He trailed off. "How did you know . . . ?"

"Where's the old man? There was an old alchemist –"

"Dead," Al interrupted shortly, and he leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. "My turn. Where did you go this morning?"

It had been a long time since they'd had to play alternating questions. Not since Germany. "To visit an old alchemist. The letter Hawkeye gave Mustang, just after class, was addressed to Bradley. Pride had commissioned him to make something, and he'd finally done it." Al needed more details, but they could wait. "The old man's dead?" At least it was one less battle with a ridiculous over-powered alchemist to worry about -

"Craege Irving killed him," Al confirmed.

Craege Irving.

The alchemist's apprentice wasn't just an apprentice at all.

He was the man's son.

And the old man really had been Johann Irving, the Fusing Alchemist.

Al took advantage of his stunned silence. "Why didn't you tell me where you were going?"

"No time. I saw Mustang ditch his bodyguards, so I followed him out." It sounded almost as stupid as it had ended up being. "He let me read the letter. Irving put some kind of compound on it, absorbed through the skin, to eliminate any hostile party 'the Fuhrer' was planning on bringing with him."

An odd expression crossed his brother's face. "So that's how you knew –"

Ed nodded, trying to get a feel for where the other stitches in his back were. At least with the old man dead he wasn't looking at a combat situation for a few days. He wanted the armor off, so he could see how badly the concrete ribbon had gotten his shoulder. Even if Patterson was his doctor again, there would have been other assistants, a nurse to change the dressing -

And Winry was going to kill him for wrecking it.

Hell, she was going to kill both of them anyway, for getting into a fight. Al looked whole, but it was obvious he'd been through an ordeal of his own.

He glanced at the armor again, surreptitiously, and his brother cocked his head to the side. "I tried to transmute your armor whole again and couldn't. Why is that?"

Ed studied it in the light, laying atop the thin sheet. In the car he'd noted the odd warping of that thickened panel on the back of his wrist, the one Winry had put in place to give him more blade to transmute without weakening the rest of the armor. The finger joints were a little off, too, like someone had been interrupted in the middle of transmuting them back –

But back from what? If the old man – Irving, he reminded himself – had just been curious to see if the limbs were missing or not, why transmute? Why hadn't he just pulled the armor off? Could he not figure out how it came off?

"I don't know."

He wondered idly if he could transmute the leg armor, too. He hadn't noticed that it was deformed, just poorly fitted. Maybe they'd managed to get it off, but couldn't find the access panel in the arm?

"You don't know?" Al sounded skeptical. "What happened to you two, Ed?"

That wasn't a fair question. It was going to be a long answer. "I don't know," he repeated calmly. "We got there just before the compound on the letter caught up with me. I passed out, and when I came around we were transmuted to a wall in a storage room. The old man had already tampered with it, at least I think it was the old man. I don't know why. I don't know what he did. I can complete a circle, but I can't seem to pass any alchemic energy through it." He hesitated. "And it's not giving off feedback like the other ingredients –"

"I noticed that too." Or he was sure Al would have gotten it as far from him as possible, the crime of human transmutation be damned. That secret was probably going to be out of the bag by the end of the month, considering he'd easily just doubled the number of people who knew the arm was still intact. If Patterson had even known before he left the hospital five months ago.

"The elder Irving was transmuting with some other kind of amplifier. I couldn't even see the alchemic energy leaving him to travel to the ingredients. It was . . . almost instantaneous."

Ed blinked. Alchemic energy, in all cases but a Philosopher's Stone, was summoned by the alchemist, and left the alchemist. It didn't just suddenly appear inside the materials being transmuted. "Al, that's impossible –"

He just shook his head. "I know. I saw it just the same. It wasn't the same amplifier Craege was using. It didn't cause the feedback problem."

And it was definitely a problem. Everything that alchemist had transmuted, down to the smallest pebble, was a danger to alchemists. Only alchemists, if what he'd seen before he'd been whisked off Tracer Avenue was any indication. But even so, moving that much material out of the city –

Was there some way to . . . eliminate the energy bond that amplifier had created? Was that even what it did?

Where the hell did the weasel – Craege – get the thing in the first place?

"You fought the younger of the two, didn't you." After all, he'd known how Russell Tringum transmuted, so it stood to reason, if Al looked to be in the condition he was in –

Dirt bath. Did he get the same treatment that Ed had?

Al scowled. "Not really," he grumbled. "Johann pinned us down the second he rolled into the Tringum's door. I almost had him talked down before . . . Nash Tringum's research. The old man was looking specifically for it." He rubbed his nose idly with the back of his thumb. "Then I think he added something to it. We smelled ozone, Johann said something, and then it sounded like he had some sort of attack."

Ed closed his eyes, trying to relax back into the pillows. "He said that the compound he'd made for Bradley was part of a 'bigger picture.' He never told Mustang what it was, but I'll bet anything that's what he mixed with Russell's amplifier."

They both chewed on that a moment. "Before Johann died, he said, Bradley's a madman, or something like that. Do you think Pride was trying to find alternative amplifiers to the Philosopher's Stone?"

That seemed . . . possible, but unlikely. Wouldn't Dante have known that it took human lives to perform human transmutation?

But then again, the old man had had that bizarre amplifier of his own . . .

And given how few of the things in his lab had been labeled, they were unlikely to ever figure out how the crazy old coot had done it.

All that damage, and nothing to show for it but that damned white crystal.

"What happened to the amplifier the weasel was using?"

Al smiled slightly at the nickname, knowing instantly who his brother was talking about. "Currently, I think it's in Havoc's pocket." Al graciously forwent the obvious joke; in fact, he sobered considerably. "None of the alchemists could get near Craege's remains, so Fuery and Breda carried them out to the HQ parade grounds to isolate them. It hit them pretty hard, but it took a long time for symptoms to show, so they didn't start getting sick until they were almost done –"

"Wait." Ed thoughtlessly tried to sit up, hissing as his wounds reminded him why he was in the hospital in the first place. "That feedback wasn't hurting them –"

"It just doesn't hurt them as quickly," Al corrected, a little wearily. "Apparently the type of bond the amplifier creates with transmuted matter . . . is like radiation, to borrow the term. It's an energy bond of some sort, I think that's why it allows such large transmutations so effortlessly, but that bond starts to break down the moment it's formed. Alchemists are sensitive to the type of energy it releases, and it does so diffusely, which is why it feels so much like alchemic feedback."

That theory actually made sense. If the amplifier somehow used alchemic energy not to excite existing chemical and molecular bonds, but to add one of its own. It would take a ridiculous investment in alchemic energy, though . . . where was it getting that, if not the alchemist?

Wouldn't that energy have to come from the Gate? Either the actual one, or the theoretical one inside all alchemists?

So it still should have taken effort. Just as much effort as it might have without the amplifier.

Of course, he was ignoring the 'amplifier' portion of that label . . . how did any alchemic amplifier work if not to render the alchemist more efficient? Perhaps that portion worked as a focus only, and was no better an amplifier than it had been prior to its being mixed with the old man's compound.

"But the energy is disruptive to all living things," Al continued. "Russell already confirmed that with one of the hospital ferns. I think the first symptoms of lethargy and nausea came in about six hours ago? By now every clinic in the city is probably over capacity."

Lethargy and nausea. Such innocent words to describe what felt like being too heavy to continue existing. Hopefully it didn't affect non-alchemists so completely.

"If it's not safe for anyone, what's going to happen?" They couldn't just dump the material . . . although, the desert to the east was mostly empty . . . the idea of moving so much of the city that distance was mind-numbing. It would take months, and all the laborers would be suffering the entire time.

Al stared at him as if he'd grown another head, then glanced over at the pole beside the bed, that held a small bag of a clear liquid that was trickling into him via a line in his left arm. "They gave you the good stuff, didn't they," Al reflected, as if it was an excuse for incompetence. "I just told you it was an energy bond, nii-san. If you reduce the material to its basic elements, there's nothing to bond."

Of course. Elements were elements. If they weren't being combined, there was nothing to bond to. "So reducing all the matter that was transmuted with the amplifier to base elements, then reconstructing it . . ."

That was almost as daunting a task as carting it off. The stuff that had been transmuted once was bad enough, but the streets where alchemic fights had taken place . . . the street on Tracer had probably been used at least five times, some portions –

And the remains of Craege Irving. Dozens. No one would be able to transmute those, even at distance.

"Are Breda and Fuery okay?" He'd said they'd gotten hit hard, and if they'd carried those materials all that way –

Al winced. "Breda's throwing up blood," he finally admitted. "Fuery's a little worse."

Ed studied the ceiling for a moment. Was that what happened if someone stayed near those transmuted ingredients too long? Could it really kill them? "Have Fletch and Russ looked them over?"

"No." Al's voice was steady. "They were deployed into the city as soon as they could transmute. I should be back out there myself."

Ed's eyes snapped back to his brother's. "Al –"

"Don't start. I know." He rubbed at the stubble on his cheek, then ran his hands through his hair. "It came from Mustang himself."

Well, that made no sense, even considering the National Alchemists answered directly to him –

So did Heymans Breda and Kain Fuery.

"Are they going to be okay?" Surely he wouldn't sacrifice any lives, no matter how long sections of the city remained uninhabitable –

" . . . I hope so." Al's voice was small. "They're on this ward, but I didn't stop in to see them."

So he was in the critical care ward again? Or had he been put here to hide the fake automail? "Who else?" Armstrong was probably a mess, and Mustang –

Even if he was conscious and giving cockshit orders.

"I dunno, Ed. A lot of people. Ten alchemists, including Alex, Saundra, and Franklin. Another seven died." He looked drawn and miserable as he said it. "Then there were people who were hurt in the fighting, and then people who got sick . . . you'd probably have gotten a private room if they could swing them, but there's no space."

Ed glanced at the far bed, noting it had once had an occupant who was conspicuously absent. "I take it they got better?"

"Better is relative." Al didn't sound happy. "I hope the charge nurse was able to keep him at least restricted to the hospital."

" . . . you're kidding me." Surely he didn't mean –

Behind them, from the nearly-closed door, came the sound of rhythmic, stiff boots marching on tile.

Sounded like Mustang's bodyguards were taking their job a little more seriously this time around.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Well, we needed a slowdown and summary chapter, didn't we? So here it is. Slowdown and summary! Big problems in Central! Lots of work to do. Two men down. Mustang is apparently cranky. And he's about to come and say hello to our favorite Elrics! There's one little thing I haven't tied up yet . . . first person to guess it gets a cookie! As always, I have looked, and I have found typos. So there are more. Many apologies in advance! And thank you all so much for the reviews and faves! I'm glad Silverfox isn't the only one enjoying it. ; )


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

"I screwed up."

He supposed it didn't matter if they were listening through the door; they couldn't have heard him.

No one could hear him.

And that was fine.

His good eye was trained on the window. It was dark enough in the room that he could see moonlight reflecting on the waxy leaves of the eucalyptus tree just outside the hospital walls. "Three years, and I couldn't even pass the six month mark."

He sighed quietly, dropping gracelessly to the edge of the mattress. His head was a leaden, throbbing weight, and he cradled it, resting his elbows on his knees and favoring his left side. Come morning, he probably wasn't going to be able to bend at the waist, let alone twist, but for now, muscle relaxers and anti-inflammatories were doing their job.

Everyone was doing their job.

"I've become a politician." He said it aloud, because while the idea was bouncing around his aching skull, it didn't seem real. Him. The one who originally gave her an order to shoot him if he ever strayed. He'd always feared he would become embroiled in some smaller, pettier issue, become too cold-blooded. Lose sight of what was important. He'd always assumed the symptoms of that would be obvious.

They weren't.

Mustang felt himself smile, as if it was amusing. As if he found it funny that he was calmly analyzing possible lies, determining logistics and coordination between all the people that would have to support any given story so that it would stand up to an investigation. As if it was only a mental pursuit to while away the time. As if there were no consequences.

It was a fact that he'd purposefully gotten rid of his bodyguards, and it was irrefutable. Parliament already knew that; it explained the two massive gentlemen outside the door, the ones that had almost refused to give him ten minutes alone with his chief of security.

His unconscious chief of security. She hadn't been given the antidote, after all, so she wasn't recovering nearly as quickly as Edward Elric had. And he understood that he had the Tringums to thank, that he wasn't hunched over, explaining himself to a corpse.

Riza was going to kick herself for this, over and over again. Another fight to look forward to. He didn't think she was stupid enough to try resigning, but it still wasn't going to be pretty. And he'd have to get to her before Hakuro did, coordinate their stories so there was no discrepancy. And Elric, too; he was probably going to be interviewed as soon as he awoke.

Seeing as he'd been a suspect in a kidnapping investigation.

Roy felt his empty smile broaden. It was ludicrous. Somehow a simple daytrip to take care of something Pride had left unfinished had turned into a mass casualty event. He'd learned when he'd woken that it was common knowledge that another Drachman assassin had succeeded, this time around. The Prime Minister was dead, and Parliament was trying to cover it up. Then an entire army had invaded the city, leaving a rare and thousand year old plague in their wake.

He didn't even want to think about what the papers would be printing tomorrow morning.

The assassination scare could be handled. He'd address the people over the radio tomorrow, assuming his voice recovered even a little. He'd admit that someone had attempted to kill him, almost fatally sickening several of his top aides. Including Edward Elric, one of the most renowned alchemists in the country.

But ditching his guards . . . what excuse could he possibly use that wouldn't seem transparent? He'd broken Parliament's trust. He'd done something completely irresponsible, something someone in his position couldn't afford to do.

But he couldn't have afforded to do nothing, either. Irving would still have come to Central, when 'Bradley' didn't respond. He would have visited the Tringums. He would have gotten hold of the amplifier research, and he would have combined his own compound with it.

And it would have killed him. They knew that, now. He would have died even if his son hadn't helped him along.

Mustang closed his good eye, but it did nothing to protect him from the sight that had been burned there an hour ago.

There was no other way this could have happened. He would have brought his son. His son would have used the amplifier. People would have died, sections of the city would have become dangerous.

But at least it wouldn't have happened on top of the leader of their country suddenly, quietly disappearing one Friday morning. It wouldn't have happened on top of the Chief of Security being incapacitated and hospitalized.

What was the right answer?

What should he have done?

Sent an army to the old man's address? Let them be overwhelmed? Quietly kidnapped the man in the night, sneaking him into Laboratory Four and interrogating him?

He might as well be Pride, if he'd consider taking actions like those.

But what if that had been the right course of action? What if fear of becoming like those he deposed was preventing him from doing what had to be done?

And if that was true, why hadn't Riza said anything when he'd given her her instructions? Why hadn't she corrected him?

"Was I wrong?"

He knew she wouldn't answer; not now, at any rate. He didn't need to weigh her already guilty conscious with his own. But if she was approaching her duties with the same concern, and not straightening him out when he needed it –

Not that she'd ever had a problem doing that in the past.

He picked up his head, opening his eye again to study his audience. Riza was oblivious, resting peacefully amongst the pillows that propped her up. To facilitate breathing. She'd probably had the same problem Edward had had. Her long blonde hair was mostly pinned beneath her head and back, and her normally pale complexion was more colorless than usual. She looked oddly small on the standard twin mattress, and the narrow metal rod that bore the bag of fluids trickling into her arm made her look all the more alone.

He knew that wasn't true, though. The men had been cycling shifts to remain with her, even through the search for him. Falman had told him before he'd assigned the man to other duties.

Everyone was doing their job.

"You're supposed to be keeping me honest," he reminded her, his voice no louder than a whisper. That was another thing he was going to have to explain away; according to Patterson, he could expect to be rasping his way through speeches for the next week, minimum. Then again, he'd accumulated so many other injuries during the fight that he could probably just lump his voice in with everything else. That was how he was planning to get around his eye. He was lucky the last hit had knocked the cotton patch clean off his face, so there was no evidence it had been inflicted prior to confronting Craege Irving.

They also needed some way to explain what Irving and his son had been doing in Central.

Hopefully Falman had gotten his uniform jacket – and Irving's letter - out of Edward's car before the letter had been discovered. He had no doubt the military had impounded the vehicle hours ago, and if the soldiers seizing it had had the audacity to go through the Prime Minister's jacket pockets, there was a chance Hakuro had already been advised of it. He was probably going to have to make things up on the fly, dependant on what the general already knew.

Which was going to make coordinating stories almost impossible.

Roy sighed again, then genuinely smiled as Riza mirrored it in her sleep.

"How are you going to bail me out of this one if you're sleeping?" he chided her gently, taking up the hand that lay above the sheets, just beside her. It was warm to the touch, indicating good circulation. He'd already been assured that she was going to be fine, suffering only from a lingering weakness. Her organs seemed to be functioning as they should, filtering the last of the chemicals from her bloodstream.

At least she could get some sleep.

Mustang turned her hand over in his, tracing a light scar on her palm. She'd told him once it was from training, at least a decade ago. A bullet had lodged in the barrel of the old handgun she was using during target practice, and the thing had blown apart in her hand. She called it her reminder that 'anything can happen on a battlefield.' No matter how well you cared for your equipment, she'd said, eventually it would fail. It was mechanical, and nothing mechanical was perfect.

"I called this imperfect world beautiful, didn't I." It was hard to relate that observation to the wards of sickened citizens he'd just come from. Reassuring them simply with his presence that he was aware of the problem, that their government was concerned and actively working, even late into the night, to make their city safe for them again.

And it would be. It was just going to take a lot of work.

He needed to get a move on. He had a lot of catching up to do.

But for a few moments, it was nice to just be still. He felt like he could breathe here. She'd always had that effect on him. He didn't even necessarily need any more reassurance than her silent presence offered. More times than he could count, it had been enough.

Talkative snipers weren't particularly effective, after all.

His lips quirked slightly at his brain's quip, his excuse. So many, over the years. There had been close calls, too, almost like this one. They always made him feel this way, and he always found an excuse.

It was never the right time. And though he could recognize it as an excuse, it was also true. Now was not the time to be concerned with his personal life.

He turned her hand back over, studying her fastidiously trimmed fingernails. Not so much as a dry cuticle. There was no swelling, no redness that he could see. He wasn't sure anyone had actually washed her hands since she'd handled the letter, though by now she'd absorbed whatever was there to be absorbed. That could have also contributed to her delayed recovery.

And here he was, disrupting her rest. He'd put off his battles long enough.

"Don't wake up until morning," he ordered, squeezing her hand gently before laying it back where he'd found it. Standing was much harder than sitting, and as he straightened he felt it again; an odd, deep ache in his chest. Several of the other alchemists that had fought Irving or been in the areas where fighting had taken place had complained of it, including the brigadier general. He was going to blame all the alchemic feedback he'd absorbed until a better reason came along.

And he wasn't sure he wanted to admit to it, unless he was specifically asked by his physician. His appearance was scaring Parliament officials enough. The idea that after he'd been found, he might still die –

That was unacceptable. If they all died from this, there would be fewer than half the State Alchemists remaining. One thing was certain – he wasn't going to let another one of them touch that blasted amplifier.

Not even to destroy it.

He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself not to limp as he finished crossing the room. They'd gotten him back into official attire, sans his uniform jacket, so the only bruising that was visible was along his jaw. His eyepatch covered most of the swelling associated with the new damage to his eye socket, and he could hide some of the stiffness.

Apparently the bruising on his jaw was enough, however. The Speaker and several of his constituents had winced the second they saw him. He'd then made an effort to show only his right profile to the injured in the wards he'd visited. It had been a fantastic mesh of deep blue and purple, so he could only assume it had either darkened, or was starting to slowly slide down his face as the blood beneath his skin began to settle towards the body's lowest point.

Maybe it would make Hakuro take it easy on him. It was unlikely, but he'd take what he could get. A little pity could go a long way.

He passed the empty bed on the other side of the room, glancing over it as he put his hand on the doorknob. The sheets had been changed, which meant it would only be a few more minutes before another patient was moved to the room. He'd been lucky to get the time alone.

Maybe it wasn't luck.

He'd have to thank Patterson, for sticking his neck so far out.

Especially since he was treating Major Breda.

The men were like shadows. He wasn't sure they weren't necessarily a good addition to his security force, save that they were mostly unnecessary. They were normally the top team assigned to the Speaker, so he was pretty sure they were only on loan. He'd have to be extremely careful that they didn't overhear anything they didn't need to.

Another logistical problem, considering they'd followed him everywhere else but Riza's room. And he was pretty sure they only obeyed his order to stay out because he was on the third floor of the hospital, unlikely to be in good enough condition to jump to the tree outside and disappear again.

It was kind of amusing, in a way. He was the most powerful man in Amestris, and he was effectively under house arrest.

He headed immediately towards the ward on the floor that had been set aside for critical care patients. He hadn't seen Kain and Breda for a couple hours. If either of them was awake, they'd probably like the company. It was getting too late to visit citizens, and he knew if he sat down for longer than he just had, he was probably going to sleep for fifteen hours. The muscle relaxers were letting him move around, but they were also putting a pretty aggressive edge on his exhaustion.

Yet another problem.

He had gone about ten steps before he heard another pair of feet fall in step with him, to his right. Approaching him on his bad side.

"Prime Minister."

It was said in a tone of greeting, so he just nodded once and continued. If Hakuro was going to be rude enough to try to blindside him, he wasn't going to get eye contact.

Speaking of getting entrenched in petty issues . . .

Roy was too tired to make a face at himself, and he turned his head as General Hakuro matched him, stride for stride.

"I've chosen the officers that will be involved in the investigation, Prime Minister. Rest assured, we will find the parties responsible."

Unlikely, considering one was apparently buried in the rubble of an apartment building, and the other was currently killing the lawn on the parade grounds.

"I have prepared a wartime declaration, should you be so inclined –"

"I've already told you." He forced the air to strike the back of his throat, to give himself enough volume. It hurt, but it was better than having everyone cup their ears. "I don't believe the Drachmans are responsible."

Hakuro was silent a moment. "I had hoped the injuries dealt to your personal aides might have finally opened your eyes, Prime Minister. You cannot continue to ignore these attacks."

He didn't respond. It would be fitting to inform the general that his aides were no more important to the country than its citizens, but it really wasn't true. It didn't have to be, either, to make him an effective leader. Silence might be admitting he cared more about his subordinates than strangers, but he'd really made that obvious years ago.

"The Parliament would back any action," the general tried again.

"When we have evidence, we'll move. Not before." He swallowed around the stinging, staring at the long, wide-tiled hall. For a second, he forgot why he was walking it.

"For God's sake, Roy. You were a soldier before their patsy." The general's voice was low but serious. "You know damn well how weak you're making this country look –"

He raised a hand, silencing the man beside him. And it worked. It was a neat trick of being higher-ranked than Hakuro was; he'd truly become almost bearable. Except for the passive-aggressive crap he occasionally pulled.

"You're right." That would probably pacify him into shutting up long enough to get the point. "I was a soldier. And if I wanted to start a war, I'd do exactly this. Making obvious assassination attempts. Your evidence, the grass that was identified . . . not only is it found only on the northern slopes, but it's rare even in their country. No one accidentally went into a florist's shop and purchased it." Sheska's research had revealed that six other types of grasses were native to their northern climate, and all were more readily available, but also further north. The fact that it had been a native grass found relatively near their border was telling.

"If I wanted to instill terror, I'd frame every country with possible hostile intentions. Make them think they had more than one enemy. Spread their army across all the borders." It was hard to keep talking. At this rate, he would be unable to address the country via radio tomorrow. He'd have to find another solution, or stop talking right now and not say another word until morning.

"These attempts were all obviously Drachman. You should be less focused on them and more worried about who would want to draw the majority of our army to the north."

He certainly was.

Then again, this hadn't been an assassination attempt. As far as he could tell, there hadn't been a serious attempt on his life since the inauguration. That could have been because of his security, because there was no point in drawing them north anymore . . . a dozen reasons. Either way, he was pretty certain the party in power in Drachma wasn't particularly dying for war with Amestris.

And even though they were pretty obnoxious, politically, and had one efficient propaganda machine telling their people that all their ills came from Amestris, using that as a reason to crush them would make him no better than Bradley. He wasn't going to penalize other countries for transgressions made against the former regime.

Those aggressions were justified. They'd probably all been on the list to be transmuted into Philosopher's Stones for Dante.

Besides, he wasn't actually certain Amestris would survive a full-out conflict with the Drachman army. Not without aid from the National Alchemists, something he'd promised he wasn't going to do.

So for now, as weak as it might make them look, he wasn't going to throw the country into war. In a way, his refusal to fall for the bait might have been no end of frustration to the parties that were trying to orchestrate this conflict. The fact that he was confident enough to do nothing in the face of attacks against him personally probably reflected better on their country than thoughtlessly striking out.

So the weak comment, he was going to take with a grain of salt.

The general chewed on his words as Roy gathered his bearings. He'd seen so many hallways, he'd forgotten where Kain and Heymans were.

One of the doors opened, to his left, and a familiar, young figure stepped out into the hall. As it was, the doctor happened to be facing his direction, and as the man's face instantly clouded, he braced himself for another fight.

This one was going to involve bedrest, he was certain.

"Enough."

He'd learned to add a little authority to his voice, but otherwise, he was the same doctor that had ineffectually attempted to protect the Elric brothers when they'd arrived back in Central. He was quite talented, though; he'd managed to treat Edward surprisingly competently, and while a good deal of the credit for saving Alphonse's life had gone to Russell and Fletcher Tringum, he'd done what he could to make the other man comfortable.

He'd also kept his mouth shut about the automail, the visits, and done his best to protect the involved civilians, like Winry Rockbell ,from Hakuro prior to the election.

Breda picked good friends.

"To your room, Prime Minister."

"Can you give me an update on the conditions of Major Breda and Second Lieutenant Fuery?"

Dr. Patterson was too far to hear him, but he was pretty good at reading lips, because he frowned. "It's too soon to tell if they've stabilized or not. I'm afraid I have nothing so positive to say about you."

He approached his patient, and the bodyguard to Mustang's left immediately stepped forward to block him. Patterson gave him a look.

"Let him pass," he rasped, and the hulking man waited several seconds before obeying. It was their silent way of protesting, he was beginning to learn. They silently protested most of his orders, but so far had only outright disobeyed two.

The first was to go away. The second was to remain fifteen feet behind him at all times. The second time, one of them had actually spoken, and explained they could not be effective from that distance.

That had been the point, but apparently these two didn't have much in the way of a sense of humor.

Patterson stepped closer, inspecting his patient's face critically. "Dammit," he commented mildly, solidly tapping the exposed portion of Mustang's right cheekbone. He flinched before he could help himself; the light tap radiated to the back of the socket as though it had been bored into with an uncapped pen.

"To your room. Now," he added, as if it would lend heaviness to his command.

"I'm afraid there's more pressing business for the Prime Minister to address," Hakuro said, rather politely, at his left. "There's the matter of the investigation, sir, as well as approval for the rotation schedules in the city. We don't want any civil unrest this evening, and we've already received reports of small fires and some looting in the damaged business sections –"

"I don't have time to rest right now," he whispered harshly, ignoring the general. Surely Patterson understood –

He received a sour smile. "I'm afraid I have something much less pleasant planned for you, Prime Minister."

Ah. Another treatment of some kind. Lovely. As if in response, from down the hall came the low keening of someone in obvious distress.

Roy was fairly sure his expression had fallen to one of resignation, because Patterson looked satisfied, and turned. "Follow me, gentlemen. Depending on the condition of the other patient in the room, I may allow you to continue your 'pressing business.'"

Rushing footsteps came from behind, and a nurse in scrubs gave their party wide berth as she passed, clipboard extended towards Patterson. The general casually stepped between the suddenly distracted doctor and Mustang, separating them slightly as they moved to the side of the hallway. The keening was getting louder; obviously another patient for the ward.

So they were still getting sick.

Hakuro ignored the incoming citizen. "Prime Minister . . . while of course it is the job of the tribunal to hear your statement tomorrow morning, it would be . . . beneficial for you to give me specific details regarding this morning. Our investigation will be exhaustive, but if there are certain things that are best left buried . . ."

He let it hang, and Roy turned to watch the gurney pass by. Owing one to the general was something he hoped he never had to stoop to.

"I don't doubt your skills, Hakuro. I'm certain your men will do a thorough job, and I encourage it." Elric's automail was all but exposed at this point. The worst that could happen would be public discovery, followed by some call to pressure him to reveal how he'd restored the limbs. This actually gave them an unprecedented excuse, though; there were known alchemic amplifiers in the city, so there was nothing he could do to squash Philosopher's Stone rumors now. It would be extremely tacky of Elric to take one to restore his limbs while – eight, now, alchemists had died, but he could tweak that story as he saw fit.

Perhaps another alchemist found him dying, and did the best he could to heal him, thus restoring the limbs . . .? Edward would at least have until tomorrow to come up with something appropriate.

The crying patient finally passed by their party, and Mustang watched his bodyguards repositioning themselves to protect him from – from a child. This patient was no older than sixteen, and his uniform was a crisp, light blue. He was torn between a scream and a moan, thrashing weakly on the gurney. While his arms were being restrained by the orderlies, his bottom half was unbound, and surprisingly still. Despite one of his burly shadows stepping directly into the way, Roy could see the boy turn towards their party, obviously looking for help –

His eyes were so glazed, they almost looked filmed over. He didn't need to check with Patterson to know what was going to happen to that boy.

Is that what Breda and Fuery looked like, now? Was that what happened to non-alchemists that remained in heavily contaminated areas?

"We of course ran a background check on your physician," Hakuro noted, bringing Roy's attention back to their conversation. His voice still soft. "We found a relationship that leads back to Heymans Breda. It seems they were rather close at one point."

Patterson had hurried over to the patient, and after a brief examination he began a hurried conversation with the lead nurse. Mustang watched the scene silently, and it took him several seconds before the full impact of Hakuro's words sank in.

So he knew Breda and Patterson were buddies. Finding that link in itself meant nothing, but if he wanted to take this back five months, knowing Patterson might have been working as an informant for Mustang's team, he could conceivably start down the road towards discovering what had happened to the uranium bomb. He had no chance of ever proving it, but even raising the questions, especially now –

"That's unfortunate," he replied, and graced Hakuro with a look.

The general's face, for once, was unreadable. It was impossible to tell if he knew what he had. "Why do you say that?"

"I dislike losing subordinates. Even less so when they are personal friends. I can train them and equip them, but there's only so much a leader can do." The doomed young man was being hurried to a room to their immediate right, and Patterson caught Mustang's eye, gesturing for him to proceed down the hall. He immediately started walking after the doctor. "I can only imagine it must be something like the relationship of a doctor to his patient."

He had hoped the news would be good. Neither of his men had been well when he'd last seen them, and though they both put on brave faces, Kain wasn't nearly as good as the others at hiding fear.

"I'm certain they'll recover." Hakuro's voice was gruff. "They're good men."

Mustang was too exhausted to be shocked by the general's words. Ever so occasionally, this man reminded him of the general he'd known nine years go. The general that had been grateful to two young boys for saving his family from an automailed lunatic on a hijacked train.

"They are," he agreed quietly, finally recognizing the room he was being led to.

It was going to be a long night.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Well, we had our slowdown chapter, so now we need some action, huh. Yep, that's what we need. Hmm . . . action . . . I should get on that, huh. ; ) I've looked for typos, and found a few, but I think this chapter is relatively clean for once! Yay for clean! Again, sorry for the lateness, and thank you all again for the reviews!

Don't forget – this was coplotted with the amazing and coughlazycough Inkydoo, who gets major kudos! If you give her more kudos, she might be inspired to actually write her plotted FMA fic, which is going to be stupendous! And filled with German! And Ed! Go forth and tell her to get off her butt and write it. ; )

And none of you have guessed yet, which means I either didn't leave enough hints, or no one likes cookies. This time, I offer brownies. ; )


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

It was quite the party that entered the room, and none of them looked happy.

A giant of a man, possibly almost as big as Sig Curtis or the brigadier general, stepped through first, and dark, serious eyes flicked to him and his brother instantly. When neither of them did anything more threatening than stare, the hulking guard stepped to the side, allowing the Prime Minister, General Hakuro, and Dr. Patterson to enter the room. They were followed by another bodyguard, nearly as large as his counterpart.

Mustang glanced their way, then reached wearily into his pocket, fishing out his watch. He studied it a moment.

"Alphonse." His voice was guttural and painful-sounding. "There are a dozen lieutenants waiting in the lobby. When you're done here, take two of them. I want both the Tringums off detail for eight hours."

Al accepted the order with a nod. "Yessir." He likely added that for Hakuro's benefit; the general knew they had a special relationship with the Prime Minister, but technically Edward was still in the middle of a court martial for desertion charges after Lior. It wouldn't do to give the general a reason to go after Al, especially considering his addition to the National Alchemists had brought with it a military rank of Major.

Detail. So the alchemists were already going through the city, deconstructing every piece of transmuted matter down to its basic elements.

And hadn't Al said he was supposed to be out there too?

Edward glanced at Mustang, finding the man being guided by the young doctor towards the unoccupied bed in the room. He was a little surprised the Prime Minister, of all people, had not been given a private room, but as far as he could tell, Mustang wasn't even a patient. He'd cleaned himself up, complete with a starched and pressed uniform, and someone had dug up one of his spare eyepatches. He looked like he'd just walked off the Parliament floor on a hot summer day, and had forgotten to replace his jacket.

His jacket was probably still in the car, but surely he had a spare one of those, too. It was pretty warm, all things considered, so the lack of it was probably due to –

Probably due to the fact that the idiot had no business wandering around the hospital.

Whether he looked like a patient or not.

Patterson leaned in close, muttering to himself as Roy reluctantly arranged himself on the mattress, and Edward's attention was drawn back towards the front of the room when Hakuro spoke.

"Glad to see you're awake, Full Metal," he drawled. "I trust you're feeling better?"

Edward regarded the general for a long second. "I'll live." The only reason Hakuro would want to talk to him would be to ask him where the hell he'd been, since he probably didn't have the authority to interrogate the Prime Minister.

"I'd have already placed you under arrest for suspicion of kidnapping, but I'm fairly certain I'd be overruled."

Ed glanced over at Mustang, who appeared to be doing his best to ignore them. Patterson had removed Mustang's eyepatch, revealing how swollen and puffy the skin around his eye socket had become, and was gently examining it.

Roy also had some bruising, to that side of his face, but everything beneath it was covered by a starched white collar. Ed wasn't sure where Mustang had taken that last hit, but apparently his jaw had gotten in the way at some point. Still, if he was walking around, he was probably okay.

Ed returned his gaze to the general. "Kidnapping, huh? Why would I want to spend any more time with that bastard than I already do?"

Beside him, Al made a face. "Nii-san-"

Hakuro just raised an eyebrow. "It's amazing you ever learned manners, Alphonse, growing up with a role model like him." His voice was oddly . . . indulgent. "I understand you've been released?"

Al seemed slightly startled to be pulled into conversation, but he recovered quickly. "Yes. I'm fine, and there are so many other people who need medical attention-"

He trailed off when Dr. Patterson approached, glaring at the tall guards. "Two nurses will be entering the room momentarily with some equipment." He turned forty-five degrees to face Al. "And the only reason you were released, Elric," he continued without pause, "is because we needed the bed, and you insisted. You are most certainly _not_ fine."

Ed glanced at his brother again, and Al pasted a goofy grin on his face, rubbing the back of his neck like he did when he was embarrassed. It soon turned into another massage, however, but as Ed sharpened his look he only got a half-hearted chuckle in response.

"How are you feeling, Edward?"

Ed continued staring down his brother, though he addressed his question to the doctor. "What happened to him?"

Patterson took a seat on the very edge of his mattress, pulling a stethoscope from beneath his wrinkled white coat. "Shallow lacerations of the neck and upper chest, depressed respiratory activity caused by oxygen deprivation, minor trauma associated with weight impact, a probable odontoid fracture, and something we're going to call minor alchemic rebound." He held the end of the stethoscope between his hands, warming it. "It's a miracle any of them survived. And on top of that, he donated a pint of blood. He should be at home, resting."

"I was resting here," Al protested. "Besides, I have work to do-"

"You were with the Tringums, right?"

Al heaved a huge sigh, but Ed didn't relax his glare, even as the doctor pressed the still-cool metal to his bared chest.

"Yes. When Craege got hold of the new amplifier, he tested it out on us." Al's eyes shifted to the right as he recalled it. "Johann had already used the foundation to trap us, so we couldn't transmute. Craege just took it a step further. He completely buried Fletcher and Russell, so they were protected when the reaction got out of hand." Al flashed him a weak grin. "He shifted too much of the foundation, and lost control of the reaction on top of it, so it's no wonder the building collapsed."

Edward blinked, momentarily nonplussed. The apartment building . . . the one the Tringums lived in. It was three stories, if he recalled properly, and the Tringums had the whole first floor –

"How did you get out?" He kept his voice calm and low, so as not to deafen the doctor listening to his chest. He could yell about it later; obviously the three of them survived it relatively unscathed. And it wasn't nearly as stupid as he had been.

Al seemed to relax a little bit. Obviously he'd been expecting his older brother to blow up. "Fletcher had nearly gotten his hands together before Johann trapped them. When Craege started spinning the rock around him, he got enough room to complete a circle. He dropped himself and Russ into the sewers beneath the building, which were still intact, and then started looking for me." Al winced a bit at the memory.

"Fletcher knocked himself out getting me out of the wreckage, and Russ transmuted the tunnel to the surface. By then we were pretty weak from all the feedback. All I could do was transmute Russ to the surface. One of the restoration crews had been over on Cobb, and they'd seen the building come down. Russ called out to a passerby, who went and got them. They happened to have the right equipment on hand to get us out."

One of the crews working on rebuilding the city from the Thule Invasion. Despite Al's guilt over the damage and loss of life, the crews on the whole seemed to appreciate his help, rather than blame him for the damages. They'd probably been more than happy to lend a hand.

"Was anyone else in the building?"

Al sobered. "Johann Irving. But we think he was dead before the building collapsed."

Ed closed his eyes, recalling what the weasel had said to him. Ditched him. Floored him. Hit the ceiling.

He'd all but told him he'd knocked the building down.

Patterson removed the stethoscope, frowning up at Al. "Are you feeling any discomfort in your chest?"

Al blinked at him, apparently considering it. "A little," he admitted. "Sort of like an ache. Only if I think about it."

Ed recalled feeling the same thing, though he couldn't tell if the slight pain he currently felt was related to the feedback or his broken rib.

"Is it sharp?"

Al shook his head. "I didn't really notice it until you asked."

Patterson frowned, then looked towards Edward. "You probably can't tell, thanks to that rib. But it doesn't seem to have punctured a lung. You're extremely lucky, Mr. Elric. Do you have any questions for me?"

He liked the way the doc phrased it. Clearly he was very aware Hakuro wasn't aware of the fake automail.

"A few," he replied. "I'd kinda like to ask without the audience, though." He looked pointedly at the general.

Hakuro was leaning on the wall, with his arms folded across his chest. "I'm afraid I have business with both you and the Prime Minister, and as you seem to be involved in his disappearance, logistically it's more secure to keep the both of you together." He smirked. "You seem fairly coherent, Full Metal. I have a few questions myself."

Ed closed his eyes, relaxing his head back on the pillows. That wasn't unexpected at all. "So what's the damage, doc?"

He heard Patterson sigh, and felt the mattress shift as the doctor stood. "One broken rib and two fractured, multiple lacerations, concussion, fever, and something we've classified as moderate alchemic rebound." There was the sound of a pen dancing across paper. "You had me worried when they first brought you in, but you should be back to teaching in two weeks."

"Two weeks?!" His eyes shot open to find Patterson eyeing him over the edge of the clipboard.

"If I thought your automail mechanic wouldn't flay me alive, I'd remove your leg to keep you in this bed," he muttered. "You're lucky to be alive, Edward."

Ed scowled, shrugging his left shoulder in an effort to feel the extent of the cuts to his back. They didn't really feel all that bad, and he wasn't even that nauseous. "I feel okay-"

Patterson gestured with the pen. "You have your brother to thank for that."

Ed glanced at Al again, who just shrugged.

Patterson correctly interpreted Ed's confusion. "Where do you think that pint of blood your brother donated went? Why else do you think we'd let him?" He continued grumbling as he dropped the clipboard back into its holder at the end of the bed, tucking his pen into his coat pocket. "You would have survived without it, but at the time we didn't know how deep the lacerations were. You were quite a sight, Mr. Elric."

He was getting tired of hearing that, and was about to point it out when he stopped himself. Maybe there was another reason Patterson kept stressing how lucky he was.

"How much pain are you in? Grade it on a scale of one to ten."

He glanced up at the small bag of medicine, more than half depleted, hanging beside him. Its label was hand-written and too far away to read. It wasn't making him especially drowsy, which he liked. "Two. What is this stuff?"

Patterson gave him a weary grin. "A little something I cooked up in medical school. I thought you'd like it."

There was a knock on the door, and the bodyguard nearest it manifested a handgun from nowhere, pulling the door open swiftly while standing behind it. The second guard moved to stand directly before the door, and he glared flatly at the two nurses standing in the hallway.

They were apparently familiar with these men, because rather than appear intimidated, the nurse that had knocked on the door simply walked in, stepping around the hulking guard like he was a piece of furniture. Her counterpart followed her, wheeling another IV stand containing a couple bags of fluid.

Utterly ignoring the giants, the nurses moved directly across the room, approaching the now prone Prime Minister. He didn't say anything as they bent to their work. Beside him, the doctor patted Ed's knee.

"Try to get some sleep. I'll check back with you in a few hours."

Ed nodded, watching Patterson turn to supervise the nurses. One of them was tilting Roy's chin up, holding a long dropper over what he knew to be an empty eye socket. The other was rolling up his dress shirt sleeve, obviously preparing to give him an injection or intravenous drugs.

Suddenly feeling as though he was witnessing something he shouldn't, Edward turned back to his brother. "Fletch and Russ are really okay?"

Al just nodded. "Yeah. They're fine." He smiled, a little sadly. "Can't say the same for their research . . ."

That was quite a loss, actually. Like all good researchers, a copy of their notes was periodically taken to the First Library for safe-keeping, but probably only bi-weekly. Whatever they'd last done to their amplifier was probably lost.

If Irving had thought that Bradley meant to combine their work . . . but the Tringums had been working on that base amplifier for months. The formula had changed pretty significantly as they'd applied what they knew from the Red Water research as well as chemistry. Was that the reason for the feedback it created? Would it have been a more perfect amplifier if they'd used Nash Tringum's formula without modification?

What had taken the old man so much longer to make? What had he made?

Of course, he knew the ingredients in the Tringums' amplifier. Technically, he supposed he could transmute those materials out of the white crystal, and whatever was left would obviously be the ingredients of the compound the old man had created –

"Al, did you say Havoc had the amplifier?"

Al was in the process of nodding when a sharp croak interrupted him. "Don't even think about it, Fullmetal."

Both the brothers looked back at Mustang. He wasn't facing them, and the first nurse was in the process of replacing the bandaging beneath his eyepatch. The second had already expertly run the needle into a blood vessel in his arm, and was currently adjusting the drip flow on the line.

"Someone's going to have to deconstruct it-" Surely Mustang wasn't thinking about keeping it? It was terribly dangerous; no alchemist should utilize an amplifier that cost so much to use, no matter how much it amplified their transmutations –

"No." His voice was extremely hoarse.

Edward kept a rein on his temper only because the general was still in the room. He was probably remaining in the hopes one of them, in a drugged state, was going to slip up. Despite feeling pretty clear-headed, Ed knew the drugs were working too well for that to be the case. Maybe he'd misheard, or phrased himself badly.

"That thing can't be left intact-"

"It can't be destroyed with alchemy." Roy finally turned to look at him, and his visible eye was flat. "It's already been attempted."

Something about the way he said it stilled Ed's next protest. Obviously the attempt was unsuccessful to the extreme, if Roy would make such a blanket statement.

"Who was it?"

"Bren Durrell," Hakuro supplied from his position on the far wall. "You really shouldn't speak further, Prime Minister, if you expect to address the country tomorrow."

Ed dropped his head back to his pillow, choosing to stare at the ceiling rather than Al. Bren was an older alchemist, specializing in mineral transmutation. Of course, as many of the older alchemists had been pressured to, his studies had been militarized, giving him the second name of 'Flint Alchemist.'

He was competent, and an excellent choice to analyze the materials of a crystal and transmute them accordingly.

"Did he survive the attempt?"

Hakuro gave Edward a measuring look, but it was Patterson that replied. "No. He collapsed almost immediately. Military paramedics tried to resuscitate him for twenty minutes without success." The doctor looked directly at Alphonse. "The second that pain in your chest worsens, I want you to stop whatever you're doing, and return here immediately."

He was standing at the foot of Mustang's bed, and backed up to let the two nurses by. "The same goes for the Tringums. When you find them, make sure to ask them. If either of them complains of it, bring them directly here."

Al nodded, already rising to his feet. "I'll do it now."

Edward was momentarily distracted as the first nurse walked directly up to the bodyguard that had barred her way. She stood on tiptoe, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "Be safe, sweetie," she murmured, and she and her colleague then proceeded out the door.

Slightly bemused, Ed watched the other bodyguard close the door, and the man that had been the recipient of the kiss glared at him, as if daring him to say anything. Al distracted him by lightly patting his armored arm.

"I'll be back. Try to get some sleep."

Ed just nodded, watching his brother cross the room. He was allowed to leave as well, with a last glance over his shoulder, and once again the door was securely closed.

"How long?"

The rasp was obviously Mustang, and Ed glanced over again before he realized Roy wasn't talking to him.

"About three hours," the doctor informed him, returning to the foot of his bed. "Normally we'd give you this cocktail over the course of five, but I didn't figure you'd be patient for that long."

Roy was propped up against the pillows, laying atop the sheets with his feet crossed at the ankles. He didn't appear to be particularly relaxed, and Ed wondered when the man had last gotten sleep. Probably not since he'd been knocked out in the fight with the weasel.

"I'm overruling your ban on pain management," Patterson continued, in a voice that was attempting to brook no argument. "What you're feeling now is nothing compared to how bad it'll burn in an hour."

Roy was uncharacteristically silent. Possibly resigned. The doctor looked faintly surprised. "I understand you still have business with the general, so I'll leave you for half an hour. After that, you will be receiving a mild narcotic, and all official business will be legally ceased until I have declared you fit for duty."

Patterson glanced towards Hakuro, who eventually acknowledged the declaration with a nod. "We should be finished by then," he agreed grudgingly. "Can you give him anything for his voice?"

The doctor frowned. "Not anything more than we already have. The less you make him talk, the better off he'll be." He glanced back towards his patient, but the Prime Minister had closed his eye.

"A half-hour," he repeated. As if he couldn't quite believe Mustang was actually accepting the time limit. When he received no protest, he gave the general a curt nod, and met Ed's gaze.

"When we have the space, I'll transfer you to a private room to better answer your questions."

Edward just nodded, watching the man check his pockets for his pen. All too soon, one of the hulking guards was closing the door after the doctor. Ed closed his eyes, counting the seconds until -

"Now that unnecessary personnel has left," the general spoke into the silence, "I believe it would be prudent for me to take your statement, Full Metal."

He wondered what would happen if he feigned sleep.

Probably nothing good.

"Let him sleep." As distorted as his voice was, it was sharp.

"You should save your voice," the general reminded him, almost silkily. "You have a radio address to make in the morning. Those assassins could be halfway out of the country by now, and unless I misunderstood you earlier, you were encouraging a full investigation."

Something about the way he said it set off little alarm bells in Ed's head, and he opened his eyes. "It's fine. Let's just get it out of the way." Obviously Hakuro couldn't question Mustang, so he really shouldn't actually know anything.

Of course, he wasn't really sure how much Mustang wanted him to tell the general. Or how much of it he wanted anyone to know.

Probably nothing.

He could almost hear Mustang hesitating into the silence, and he sighed. "Where do you want me to start? And shouldn't there be an officer in here, writing the dictation?" Maybe he could get the general out of the room, even for a minute, so they could get their story straight?

"Just an overview for now." Hakuro's voice had returned to its usual business-like tones.

So much for agreeing on a story.

Ed briefly closed his eyes again, trying to detect how much the drugs were affecting his thought processes. Hakuro would latch onto the smallest mistake. He'd been slightly more bearable since Mustang had taken the position of Prime Minister, but not much. He still seemed to have a very specific grudge against him, and Ed hadn't yet wasted the time to wonder why. Maybe the desertion, all those years ago? He'd really never been the same since Havoc pretended to be Mustang, and out-maneuvered Hakuro's forces for quite some time during the Northern Rebellion.

"It can wait."

Ed picked up his head, turning to look at Mustang. The other man was staring directly at the general. He was also holding his left arm with his right, as though it was paining him.

The intravenous 'cocktail,' as Patterson had called it. He'd said the burn would get worse, so that must be what he'd been referring to.

Hakuro really did have them where he wanted them. Mustang was exhausted and in pain, and he was probably drugged out of his mind. They made a great pair.

"It's fine," Ed repeated, a little flatly. "He's going to find out anyway."

As expected, the general's eyes flicked back to him, and Ed arranged a scowl on his face.

"Any chance this can be off the record?"

The general gave him a considering look. "I guess that will depend on what you have to say."

"Fullmetal –"

"It's not like it matters anymore," he interrupted, before Roy could say anything else. "The weasel's dead. I suppose his remains are still a problem, but he's much less of a threat if he's an inanimate lump."

Mustang just stared at him, and Ed broke eye contact to focus on the general. He was pretty sure he could explain away both the apparent 'assassination' attempt and the Irvings, he just needed to concentrate, and he needed Mustang to shut up and trust him. The latter was probably unlikely.

"You're referring to Irving?"

Ed glared. "How did anyone figure out who they were, anyway?" The first thing he needed to figure out was whether Hakuro had found the letter, since it had probably been in Mustang's jacket pocket when they'd left the car to deal with the younger Irving.

"Russell Tringum identified Johann Irving," Hakuro responded. "Records were pulled that led us to believe the other alchemist was his son. Is that not the case?"

Of course. The old man had probably introduced himself and asked Russell for the notes before he'd attacked them, considering Nash was supposedly a 'childhood friend.' He still wasn't happy that he'd pinned them, but at least it hadn't been the old man that had tried to kill them –

And if Hakuro had the letter, surely he'd have mentioned the address on it had also matched the last known residence of the missing Fusing Alchemist.

"It's correct." He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "He'd been applying to the Academy for the past month. Probably without his old man's knowledge. Originally I didn't accept him because he'd never applied for the State Alchemists' exam, so we didn't have any way to measure his competency. He took issue." Ed paused, letting his expression darken. "I didn't expect him to be powerful enough to carry out his threats."

"What does this have to do with your disappearance this morning?" He'd actually expected a sarcastic remark, and Ed found he was almost disappointed that his 'debrief' wasn't about to devolve into an argument.

"It's not Academy policy to extend invitations to uncertified alchemists. Part of the party line, to continue bolstering the ranks." He glared at Mustang, who was just staring at him with a rather blank expression. "A party line I disagreed with, I might add."

Roy gave him a dark look, but didn't say anything. Content to let him continue?

"This morning the Prime Minister decided to assist in one of my classes, and I had a lapse of judgment and asked for his advice." Less than twenty-four hours ago. It seemed like a lifetime. "The little weasel was obviously unhinged, but he was the son of a fairly renowned alchemist. I thought there was a chance he might visit Central personally and cause a scene."

"Why would you leave Academy grounds to have that discussion?"

Ah, that was a good question. Why . . ? "The last letter he sent insinuated he'd transmuted a Philosopher's Stone." It wasn't as if that rumor wasn't going to spread anyway, considering the damage to the city. "I wanted to make sure the one I used to restore Al had been completely consumed." He sent another look across the room, making it purposely look reluctant. "I figured if a piece of it had survived, Mustang would know about it. It wasn't a conversation I wanted to have in a building full of alchemists."

Hakuro digested that a moment. "Are you finally admitting to transmuting a Philosopher's Stone at Lior?"

Ed didn't let his expression change. Trust Hakuro to try to make it look like he'd killed his own soldiers. Technically Scar had been the one to transmute it, and sticking to the truth in this case wasn't going to hurt anything. "No. Scar made that array, and Scar transmuted that Stone. I am admitting that I used it." He paused. "Apparently all of it. If it wasn't fully consumed during the transmutation to restore Al's body, neither of us know where any remainder might be."

Hakuro was silent for a long moment. "Why did you take separate vehicles?"

Ed blinked, staring at the general. " . . . we didn't. I drove. I figured we had less of a chance of being overheard if we were moving." Then he let a look of sudden understanding cross his face. "Of course," he muttered, as if to himself. "That's how the bastards managed to find us so quickly." He refocused on the general. "We noticed a Parliament car was tailing us, but we figured it was Mustang's men. It was Mustang's car, wasn't it."

"It was found near the publishing house." The general didn't sound like he was convinced. "What happened after you left Academy grounds?"

"The drug hit." He frowned. "I don't know what it was on. Something we touched." He wiggled the fingers on his armored hand, careful not to let the pain show. "I guess I didn't get enough of it on my left hand to kill me. We figured it must have been something Roy handled when he was wearing his ignition gloves, during the class. He probably absorbed some when he removed the gloves."

His lie was going surprisingly well. What else . . . oh. Hakuro hadn't been in the room when he'd asked Al about Hawkeye, so he shouldn't say he knew she'd been sickened as well. He also hadn't been in the room when Al had said that Johann showed up to combine his compound with the Tringums' amplifier, but obviously Russell had already been questioned . . . what would Russ have told them?

"When I came around, we were chained up in a basement. Not far from the publishing house, actually." He rotated his left wrist, just to ensure the general noted the shallow cuts. "I missed most of the party, but I do remember they came through to gloat. Said it was better we'd survived, that they'd bear Mustang's body before the invading army. The usual crap."

His mouth was getting carried away with him. "Unfortunately, they knew what they were doing," he grumbled. "Between the drug and the bonds, neither one of us could transmute. Mustang heard them leave the house, probably to ditch his car." He made a face. "I was still pretty much useless at that point, so Mustang yelled for help until someone heard him."

Ed shifted to ease a sudden cramp in his back, surprised the general hadn't interrupted again. He figured the rest of the story was self-explanatory. "By the time we got out of there, Craege had trashed half the city. My car was still there, so we took off in the direction of the fighting."

"Describe the men that held you."

Hmm, time to make up bad guys. The last few assassination attempts had looked like the Drachmans, so they were probably a safe bet. "Don't remember much. Medium build, pale, dark eyes. Pretty heavy Drachman accents." He frowned, and glanced again at Mustang, this time inviting him into the conversation. "A little too heavy."

Mustang just nodded wearily. "I agree."

Nice. He hadn't contradicted anything Roy had already said.

"Did you know Craege Irving was going to be in the city?"

Ed shook his head. "No. He was pretty vague with the threats. I figured we had more time."

"Do you know why his father was here?"

Ed just shook his head. "No. Al told me he stopped by the Tringums, and was asking about Nash Tringums' research. I guess Craege saw an opening."

Hakuro cocked his head. "Where are the letters?"

Hmm. He supposed he could write up a few quickly, if he could think of a reason to put them someplace Hakuro didn't have immediate access to . . .

Oh. But he'd supposedly been asking Mustang's advice on them. Shit. "In the car."

Of course, they weren't going to find them in the car . . . maybe he could claim the assassins had taken them. What he needed to do now was think of an object that they would have taken with them, so –

No, he didn't. All he had to do was think of an item only he, the Prime Minister, and Hawkeye would have touched. Something that got cleaned often, too, so the poison wouldn't be there anymore . . . maybe they could claim it became inert after it dried? What would have been something only Roy would have touched . .?

"I didn't have any new students in that class." Maybe he could send the general off on a wild goose chase? "And I didn't recognize either of the other guys, but they'd have almost had to have had inside help."

He'd let Hakuro try to figure out what they'd touched. Of course, it meant that Hawkeye had to keep quiet about the letter, but assuming she'd made the same leap Mustang had, and figured it had to do with a Philosopher's Stone, she was unlikely to mention it. He'd need to ditch the general at some point, though, and telephone the house. Since the Tringums' living quarters were destroyed, knowing Al, he'd take them to their home to make sure they slept. The three of them could get their stories straight before any further investigation.

Except for the stop the Irvings had made at the Tringums', they were fairly uninvolved. And Mustang had heard everything he'd just said, so as long as Hawkeye and Al didn't contradict the weasel angle, they were probably home free –

Then again, home free was relative. Lying about the letter didn't change any of the consequences. There was an amplifier that was highly dangerous, and could not be destroyed. The city was probably in chaos, considering they truly believed the assassination attempt story. For all intents and purposes, it was almost true. Craege would have killed Mustang with that last attack, he was certain of it.

And he would have died himself, if Armstrong hadn't come back for them. If Fuery and Breda hadn't been with him. If a doctor hadn't treated him.

Congratulating himself for a coherent lie. What the hell was he thinking?

"Anything you'd like to add, Full Metal?"

Hakuro was probably going to take the human transmutation admittance and run with it, but then again, it was the only thing Ed could think of that would explain why Mustang would have been reluctant to give him the information he wanted. Roy was famous for protecting his subordinates –

Which begged the question of why he'd sent the Tringums on cleanup detail when two of his men were dying a few doors down.

"Nothing relevant." He rearranged his scowl. "What's going to be done with the amplifier?"

"Nothing." It came from Mustang. It was impossible to tell from his voice how he felt about that. "It will be kept in a safe place until more pressing matters have been dealt with."

Hakuro gave Ed one last look. "I don't see any reason to keep your statement off the record. It's already been widely accepted that you've continuously dabbled in taboo alchemy without consequence since you were ten years old." His expression was stern, rather than triumphant. "However, you might consider stating the information pertaining to the Prime Minister's involvement in possible Stones more carefully tomorrow during your debriefing."

Ed tried not to gape at him. Had he just asked him to lie in the debriefing . . . to _protect_ Mustang?

Of course, the debrief would be on record, and if there was someone on the inside trying to assassinate Mustang, he supposed they could use a Stone rumor to lure him into some kind of trap . . . much like Irving had unwittingly done.

That actually wasn't a bad plan. It would probably work. Obviously Mustang didn't trust him to handle possible Stones if they cropped up . . . but maybe the results of not trusting his subordinates would drive home the point that he should.

Hakuro ignored his stunned look, and turned back to Mustang. "I apologize for pressing the issue earlier," he said curtly. "Do you feel you need to review troop deployment throughout the city?"

Mustang just shook his head. His lips were pulled thin.

That stuff was bothering him more than he was letting on. Either that, or he was very, very angry.

"I will notify your physician that we're done here."

"Don't let Patterson lock you out." His voice was still grating. "Update me every hour, even if you have to wake me."

Clearly Mustang wasn't going to trust Hakuro to run the show. Although, it didn't seem like there was much Roy could really do at this point. The alchemists that could transmute had probably already been given orders, the general wasn't completely inept and could be trusted to keep order, at least for the evening, and Parliament wasn't going to reconvene for hours. If Mustang wanted him to change his tune, they could discuss it long before he had an official debriefing. There was no real reason for the man to deny himself some well-earned rest.

Hakuro bowed, then headed for the door.

"Try to get some rest, Prime Minister. Full Metal."

The two bodyguards allowed him to leave, closing it behind him.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: The next chapter is a direct continuation of this one. It was getting too long, so I had to break it up into two parts. Expect it to be posted soon!


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer in previous chapter. Please see Author's Notes at the end. This chapter is a direct continuation of the previous.

- x -

Ed let his gaze naturally fall to the ceiling, unfocusing and staring at the patterns of light absorption on the acoustic tiles. The bodyguards would prohibit them from speaking openly, though obviously they'd been able to keep top-level secrets before. They could probably talk if they were careful.

"You okay?"

He didn't really know why he asked it. He knew the answer was no. Pretty soon Patterson would return, with a nice syringe of something pleasant, and Mustang would be sleeping, whether he felt it was irresponsible or not.

He was probably lucky the doctor hadn't threatened to follow suit with him. For some reason, though, he was feeling more awake than he had before. Almost restless.

Almost like he was wasting time. Like he should have been doing something.

Probably the same way Mustang felt. Like there was more to it than simply stopping the out of control alchemist.

"Patterson wasn't kidding." Ed was surprised enough that he actually looked at Roy, finding him in about the same position. Staring at the ceiling, cradling the arm the IV line was being fed into. "This stuff is killing me."

Was he trying to ditch one of the bodyguards into getting the doc?

"You went down pretty hard."

Mustang just grunted. "I'll be fine, Fullmetal."

Ed hesitated. "How did Bren try to decompose it?"

He heard Roy sigh quietly. "The same way everyone else does."

So, a basic decomposition.

How could you kill yourself performing a basic decomposition? Short of falling into it, as Al had done?

"It seems Van Hohenheim was right," he grated, after a moment.

Ed blinked up at the ceiling. That was an odd comment indeed. "How so?"

"He theorized every alchemist had . . . something inside them, that allowed them to channel alchemic energy that existed in Nature."

An inner Gate.

Was he insinuated that was why Bren had died . . . ?

Ed blinked. He'd never had trouble talking in code before. It was his forte, after all. He'd been encoding his research since he'd started recording it. He'd almost missed Patterson doing it, and now he was missing Roy doing it.

So the drugs were screwing with him.

He didn't respond for a moment. So if he was right, and Roy was telling him that was why Bren had died . . . hadn't Dante said that Hohenheim's body had died when he'd transmuted the first Philosopher's Stone? That the effort had actually killed him?

Hadn't he been thinking it during the fight? That the alchemy was taking too much effort? Hadn't he blamed that feeling in his chest on feedback?

No matter what method alchemists used to channel alchemic energy into transmutations, obviously the amplifier was damaging it. Or rather, the feedback it caused when it interacted with ingredients –

Ed blinked.

Al had said the old man had had some sort of attack just after making it. And Bren wouldn't have been using it to transmute anything when he tried to decompose it. He supposed it could be argued he was using it to decompose itself, since all amplifiers worked by proximity, not necessarily special concentration from the alchemist. Trying to transmute the thing itself could possibly have caused the amplifier itself to start giving off feedback –

"Is the amplifier still safe to leave with Havoc?" Surely they wouldn't have given it to Havoc if it was now giving off feedback of its own –

"Yes." Roy sounded a little frustrated. Like he couldn't figure out why they were still having a conversation. "It's not giving off any feedback that we can detect."

So using it to decompose itself had not transmuted it? Or its materials weren't affected by the alchemic bonds that it was causing in other materials?

. . . but that was impossible. How could something that channeled alchemic energy be immune to alchemic energy? In effect, how could matter not be transmutable?

Of course, wasn't his arm resistant to alchemy, but still letting him complete a circle? If the compound the old man had added to the Tringum's amplifier was the same stuff he'd put in his armor –

. . . but why would he do that?

Ed sighed. Now he was confusing even himself.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, quietly. Whatever Mustang was trying to tell him, he wasn't getting it.

"So am I." He heard Mustang shift on the bed. "You never should have been there."

Ed just blinked. He now officially had _no_ idea what they were talking about.

"I don't think Al was close enough to it long enough." Roy stated it as if it was meant to be reassuring. "He should be fine."

Close enough to it long enough . . . just talking about the level of feedback he'd absorbed? Because the feedback was caused by the ingredients, not the amplifier . . .

But then, if it wasn't causing feedback, then how did Bren die?

Ed wished he had a piece of paper. What they had was an amplifier. It was opaque, a crystal of unknown materials. It worked by focusing an alchemist's gathering of alchemic energy more efficiently –

Okay. That was not a fact. That was a hypothesis. What did he know.

It amplified transmutations. Ingredients that were transmuted gave off some type of energy that was harmful to living things. Alchemists were more sensitive to this energy. It caused everyone to feel lethargy, nausea, and weakness. It caused physical damage, if Breda and Fuery were throwing up blood.

Edward tried to modulate his voice so it didn't sound accusing. There had to be a reason.

"Why didn't you have the Tringums treat Havoc and Breda?"

Mustang was quiet for a while. "They're National Alchemists. I needed them elsewhere."

One treatment would have taken them no more than half an hour. Even one of them could have done more than nothing at all. "Are you sure they're gonna pull through?"

Roy sighed again. "The Tringums didn't invent healing alchemy."

Oh.

So they were being treated by an alchemist, just not a certified one. Because Roy needed all the National Alchemists to clean up the city, but had no authority over the non-certified ones. "Why didn't you just say so?" he groused.

"You didn't ask."

Why hadn't Al asked, was the question.

So even with an alchemist's help, they were still bad off. Maybe what was wrong with them couldn't be treated with alchemy, since it was caused by some kind of alchemic feedback?

He added that to his list of conjectures.

Bren had died. It was related to his 'inner Gate,' for lack of a better descriptor. Many of the alchemists had been feeling discomfort, probably stemming from the same place. So the feedback hurt them.

But something had killed Bren. Instantly.

And Al had said that Johann Irving had had some kind of attack just after creating it.

Were those deaths related?

If the amplifier itself wasn't giving off feedback, then either it was immune to its own effects, or Bren hadn't gotten far enough in the transmutation to do anything. Al had said he smelled ozone, which could have been released when the compound was added to the Tringum's amplifier, so that could be explained away with chemistry.

Everyone that had used it had died.

He was ignoring Craege Irving.

But Irving had died because his body had been transmuted. Many times. It was currently lying in neat lumps on the parade grounds, according to Al. He had generated so much alchemic feedback in himself that his molecules had been ripped apart. That was the only explanation for the sudden evaporation of his body.

Of course, just before he'd died, he'd been hugging his chest . . .

Then again, he'd been getting shot full of holes by soldiers at the time.

Ed thought back. Actually, he'd healed from those wounds. The uniforms had been approaching him with drawn weapons, but he didn't actually recall seeing the man get shot again . . . he'd been holding his chest, and healing himself –

What if he wasn't just healing the wounds they were inflicting?

If you couldn't use alchemy to heal the feedback damage, then maybe he'd been healing himself from something else. He'd stopped at one point to heal his hands . . . but again, he'd created feedback in his own tissues. And that feedback had weakened Ed to the point that he could barely move, just being near the weasel –

But the weasel himself had still been moving normally.

Irving had transmuted with the crystal, and he'd died.

Bren had transmuted with the crystal, and he'd died. Almost instantly.

The old man had created it, and he'd died. Almost instantly.

Mustang had said that he didn't think Al had been near enough to it long enough.

Amplifiers worked by proximity.

So when they'd been fighting Craege in close combat, they'd actually probably been using the amplifier as well.

Was Mustang saying they were going to die, too? And so was every alchemist that had used it?

That was ridiculous. How on earth would that work?

Edward took a deep breath, clinging to the line of thought. If the amplifier wasn't killing simply by the feedback it caused in transmuted ingredients, how was it accomplishing it?

It was causing damage. Damage that could be healed, at the cost of making the ingredients give off feedback. That was why Craege hadn't died instantly. He'd crossed the taboo of human transmutation without thought, because he didn't know any better. Bren wouldn't have made that mistake, but the old man should have –

Then again, the old man had never restored his limbs. He'd clearly traded years of his life to the Gate, and possibly pieces of his apprentice, but he'd never used human transmutation to gain physical benefits. He'd only to it to sacrifice. In return, he'd probably gathered knowledge, or even possibly some of the ingredients he used in his compounds . . .

Had the old man realized that healing himself with it was just going to kill him anyway? Al had said he'd had some kind of attack, and then Craege had taken advantage and killed him . . .

So that could explain why it took Craege longer to die than Bren or the old man, but not how he was killed in the first place.

Ed sighed, staring up at the bag of drugs beside his bed. It was almost empty.

Well, at least he'd be clear-headed soon enough. Even if it hurt, it would be worth it just so he could _think._

How did the amplifier work? It seemed to be using alchemic energy to create bonds, rather than using the energy to excite existing chemical and electrical bonds. That was how alchemy worked; breaking and forming bonds to move and attract matter into different materials. That was why it was so important to understand the ingredients one was transmuting, otherwise they couldn't be intelligently combined.

But this amplifier was obviously causing the energy to be used in a different way. Not a particularly useful one, though he had to admit the transmutations had been huge -

But if that was how it worked . . . hadn't he himself said the investment of energy, even with the amplifier, had to be enormous? If that was how it was applying alchemic energy, where was the amplification coming in? The Red Stone worked because it used the life stolen from the fetuses of pregnant women, and a Philosopher's Stone was concentrated life as well, so in essence, they amplified because they already contained their own alchemic energy. They weren't taking any from the alchemist, they were actually providing it.

The weasel had said the white crystal couldn't be used up, which meant it wasn't being used as an ingredient in the transmutation, but just a focus . . . But it would still just be focusing the energy coming from the alchemist.

It wasn't amplifying at all. Unless it was somehow increasing the amount of energy an alchemist could normally summon or control? In which case –

In which case, if pops was right, and every alchemist had an inner Gate . . . and overuse of that inner Gate caused the body to die –

Then that was how it was killing alchemists. It was causing them to unthinkingly draw too much energy. Maybe they were even accidentally using their own lives in the transmutations.

But the feedback hurt. Cleary there was physical damage involved with this inner Gate, so how had they not felt what they were doing . . . ? Unless by the time it hurt, it was already too late? Or the amplifier allowed them to pull that energy too fast . . .?

How much energy had Bren vested in his decomposition? How could he have killed himself so quickly? Unless one alchemist's Gate wasn't the same size as the others? He'd always been able to control massive transmutations, as had Al, but they figured that had to do with their understanding of alchemy, not any innate ability to channel more energy than any other alchemist –

But there had to be something separating alchemists from normal humans, then. Not everyone could perform alchemy, and he'd chalked it up to a lack of understanding. Alchemy was a science, after all, and not everyone understood math, so it stood to reason –

What if that assumption was wrong?

Edward shoved the question to the back of his mind, refocusing his thoughts on the amplifier itself. If that was how the crystal worked, and it meant that any alchemist that used it had the ability to unknowingly, significantly overtaxed their body –

Then why on earth would Pride have wanted it developed? What good was an amplifier that killed the alchemist using it? If you used it sparingly, for small transmutations, it probably wasn't harmful, but if anyone had tried a significantly large transmutation, just a single one would be enough to do them in.

The old man had probably tested it the moment he'd made it. He'd tried to do something large, just to see what it could do for him. Maybe that was why they smelled ozone. Maybe he'd tried to manipulate the atmosphere in the room, or create a small thunderstorm. Causing weather was fairly taxing; few alchemists could really do it. It probably would have been enough.

It would have been useless to Dante. The second she'd have tried to use it to move her soul, she would have killed . . . well, the body she was using. But maybe not the body she was moving to . . .?

Could the 'inner Gate' be tied to the soul, and not the body? Al could transmute even when he was a sit of armor. If it was a physical thing, how had he been able to do that?

Al said that the human soul was tied to the back of the neck, not the chest. And if it was tied to the soul, then why had Hohenheim's soul survived even when transmuting the Stone had killed his body? Hadn't Dante always moved herself to another alchemist's body?

But she'd been intending to use Rose. And Rose was no alchemist.

A body could live with no soul. Nina was proof of that. And a soul could live without a body, if Al was any indication. Though Al's body had been in the Gate, so technically it was still alive –

So technically Al had had a body, even as armor.

A body was required for the inner Gate.

Which should mean that Dante would have killed her new body completing the transmutation of tying her soul to it. This amplifier would have been worse than useless for her.

Then again, was that due to the changes the Tringums had made to it? Surely Pride wouldn't have had a amplifier developed that did nothing but kill alchemists, even Dante –

Pride.

He'd never really fit his name. He'd been her greatest accomplishment because he could age, but pride was hubris, and Pride had never made a mistake. Even taking on Mustang in a fight hadn't been a mistake, wouldn't have been a mistake if his son hadn't brought his own skull into the room . . .

Pride to keep his skull, his weakness, in his own house.

Pride to think that since he was the most perfect of the Homunculi, he had no need to become a fully-fledged human?

Because if he thought that, there'd be no reason to continue serving Dante.

And Dante was one of the very few people that could have killed him.

The Tringums had screwed with their part of the amplifier too much. They'd altered Nash's original design. It had never been meant to cause feedback.

But it had been designed especially to kill alchemists. He had been developing it, in secret, to give to Dante.

To kill her.

And if it wasn't causing feedback, they'd never have figured it out.

Maybe not just Dante. If a piece of it had been put in the National Alchemist watches, instead of Red Stone, they'd have all killed themselves the first day they went into battle.

Not just to kill Dante, then.

To kill all of them.

Ed swallowed. "I think I get what you were saying earlier."

He and Roy had been close enough to Craege to have used it. Which meant they'd also seriously overtaxed themselves. They weren't dead yet, but if they had continued the fight in close quarters, that would have been it –

It was a miracle Armstrong hadn't died. Maybe he'd been far enough away.

"You sure you're feeling all right, Fullmetal?"

He glared at Mustang before he realized it was a joke. Or meant to be one, anyway. Mustang's jaw was clenched, and he was studying the ceiling intently, as though something extremely entertaining was being displayed there.

Where the hell was Patterson? He needed to know –

No, he really didn't. So long as no other alchemist ever used the crystal, it was benign. It didn't matter that they knew how it was killing alchemists. The damage was done. They'd either recover, or they wouldn't. There was always the chance that they'd just be crippled, like tearing a ligament. Not be able to transmute anymore.

Of course, hadn't this day begun with his arguing that alchemists were doing too much of that to begin with? If he truly felt that way, why did the idea that he might never transmute again cause his stomach to curl? How had it made him feel in Germany, when he couldn't transmute open the door, couldn't save those gypsies?

But that was transmuting for a purpose, not just to make a pretty paper decoration.

Their mom had loved them, though. If the purpose was to bring someone pleasure, or even to teach, did that make it irresponsible? Physicists might use their knowledge of alchemy to develop new products or machines that could possibly save or improve the quality of life for many, but if they weren't sufficiently interested in alchemy –

Then they were idiots. Science should be appealing because it was science, not because it made balloons float around.

But if not everyone could perform alchemy, how could they really understand it? If they couldn't transmute themselves, if they saw demonstrations, would they be able to grasp the finer points?

Shit.

Mustang might actually have a point.

There was a soft knock on the door, and the bodyguards did exactly what they'd done before. Patterson did not appear impressed, and walked without preamble. He seemed unhappy to see Edward awake, because he frowned at him.

"I expected you to be asleep by now."

Ed thoughtlessly shrugged, and the pain that had previously been bearable was but a pleasant memory in comparison to the sensation in his right shoulder. He clenched his teeth to keep the shout muffled.

And he'd been wishing for this?

Patterson had approached him in the meantime, and was looking at his armor helplessly. He couldn't do anything about it, currently; if he took the port off, he'd have to take the full armor off, and then it would be obvious he still had the arm. Hakuro might have been civil, but there was no way he was going to let that slide, considering everyone had seen him missing both the arm and leg when he'd gotten back five months ago.

"I had hoped the damage to your port hadn't gone through to the bone beneath," he offered lamely. "Bone pain is the worst. Let's step up the drugs."

"It's fine. Just surprised me." He kept his voice level by keeping it low. It wasn't fading nicely, either, but now that he'd had a few seconds, he could handle it.

Tomorrow was going to be bad. And the day after it wasn't going to be much better.

"Edward-"

"Leave it." He nodded toward Mustang. "Your other patient has seen the error of his ways."

Patterson hesitated, then turned. Obviously he was going to take advantage of non-protesting patients while he could. "Don't think you're getting off that easy."

"Easy? Winry is going to _kill_ me. She made this stuff five months ago."

Patterson smiled, but it looked tired. "You're right." He moved around to the other side of the room, bending to check the level of fluids in the bags to Mustang's left. "I'm sorry for the pain, but this combination is the only thing that's going to prevent serious complications down the road –"

Mustang just nodded. "Don't put me under."

"I told you I was going to overrule you, and I am." He fished a syringe out of his front coat pocket. "This is a mild narcotic. It's going to make you drowsy, but it's not powerful enough to knock you out. Your own exhaustion is going to do that." He hesitated as he readied the needle. "Are you certain all business has been finished? Once you're under the influence of this drug, for all intents and purposes you can no longer address Parliament or the military in an official capacity."

Ed watched Mustang hesitate, but he'd never let go of his arm, and after a moment he gave a curt nod. The needle was inserted into the line that ran to his arm, which spared him the added prick of a needle. The second ticked by, and Mustang didn't appear to relax any further.

Another knock at the door attracted his attention, and once more, the guards moved into action. They were like a well-oiled machine. It was almost eerie.

It was the same nurse he'd seen earlier, and again, she ignored her intimidating beau. She handed Patterson a clipboard.

"Braeburn thinks we should switch her to a dimethyl solution," he heard the woman murmur softly, as if she didn't want to bother a sleeping patient.

Which was silly, since she could see they were both wide awake –

A glance at Mustang found his eyes closed, and his right arm was still draped across his chest, but no longer cradling his left.

That was fast.

Patterson shook his head, flipping through a couple pages. "No, keep her on ethylamine. And add the sterite solution, to keep the cornea inflammation down to a minimum."

Ed turned away, since looking to his left pulled on his right shoulder, and he concentrated very hard on reminding himself not to move anything, and not to tense anything.

He was useless to the cleanup process, at this point. Transmuting now would just be plain stupid. The best he could do was heal up and free up the bed and doctor's time for someone who needed it more. Even he wasn't the least bit sleepy.

"Excuse me, doctor." All three of them glanced at Mustang. His eye was still closed. "Did you say corneal inflammation?"

Trust Mustang to be obsessed with eye ailments.

"Yes."

"Is that a common symptom from the feedback?"

Patterson signed off on his prescribed treatment, and the nurse left the room hurriedly, stopping only to give her man a peck on the cheek, the other one this time. He took it stoically.

"No." The doctor sharpened his attention. "Why do you ask?"

"There was a young man with an eye ailment, earlier." He was slightly slurring his words, and the rasp made it difficult to tell how awake he really was.

"Yes. Both have similar symptoms, though they came from different sites. Sudden onset of acute circulatory failure to the lower extremities, followed by a protein film building on the corneas."

So they couldn't walk and couldn't see.

Edward blinked. Now that was an odd coincidence, that the feedback caused by the amplifier the old man had made would actually make its victims _look_ like him.

In fact, it was weird enough that it didn't make much sense.

Ed glanced over at Mustang. He had opened his eye, and was pinning the doctor with it. There was no sign of drowsiness in his gaze.

"Did you just say failure of the lower extremities?"

Patterson nodded. "I did." He narrowed his eyes. "Why the sudden interest?"

Roy turned to catch Ed's gaze, and for the first time, Mustang didn't look angry. His expression was unreadable, but urgent.

"He said I'd see him on every corner." He spoke forcefully enough that his voice cracked. "To remind Bradley that he'd betrayed him."

It took Ed a second to place what he was saying.

"The old man?"

Of course. When they first met him, he was certain Mustang was Bradley. It would stand to reason that Bradley would take his half of the research and kill him, since he would have figured out when he combined it with Nash's that it killed alchemists –

So the old man had taken out some kind of insurance policy?

"He said he'd destroy everything Bradley worked for. He said he'd reduce it to dust."

What had Pride been working for? Obviously to kill Dante, but he hadn't known that at that point, so . . .

A Philosopher's Stone.

He was going to stop Bradley from making a Philosopher's Stone.

"I don't understand –"

"The boy." Roy turned back to Patterson, already sitting up. "How is he?"

Patterson glanced between the two of them, obviously confused. "I'm afraid he died-"

Had the old man been planning to upset Bradley's plans by killing them?

Ed closed his eyes.

Yes. That was exactly what the old man had planned. Bradley needed the Amestris military to create a Philosopher's Stone. Any military. Any group of people, really.

And the closest group of people to the old alchemist had been Central.

If he wiped out the city, all of Bradley's plans really would crumble to dust. Amestris would have been consumed by its neighbors.

And he was such a genius with compounds . . . the poison on the letter . . .

He'd put a poison somewhere else. Somewhere where it would affect a lot of people.

The question was where.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Muahahaha! In one gigantic chapter, I managed to reveal all kinds of stuff! Tricksey Pride, trying to kill Dante. Ed's armor being untransmutable. And just when things seemed to be winding down, the OCs strike again! Admittedly, they did it from chapter three, which was a long time ago. Bad OCs! No cookie!

I went looking for errors, but this chapter is HUGE. So there are twice as many as usual. Many apologies! Hopefully I have made up for errors with content. ; )

(It's like an April Fool's joke in reverse. Two chapters instead of the expected none. ; ) Happy April Fool's, all!)


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

Rather ironically, his first thought was to wonder if he could somehow render the mechanical armor immobile. Judging by his patient's expression, only crippling him was going to keep him in that bed.

Of course, he very nearly _was_ crippled.

"No." He said it as firmly as he could manage. He knew by their sudden lack of careful speech that whatever they were discussing was extremely important. Something that would make them throw caution to the wind, as it were, as there were two guards in the room that he knew full well were not part of the Prime Minister's normal security team. They were openly discussing something they shouldn't, and whatever it was, it had to do with his patients.

Which made it equally important to him. If they were going to speak so plainly, he probably had no choice but to follow suit.

"You were in surgery for two hours with that shoulder, Elric." Two painstaking hours of removing bits of concrete and fragments of bone. The armor alloy had done an incredible job of slowing the strike; without it, the arm would have been completely removed. After puncturing the steel 'port', all the blade had managed was a partial piercing of his clavicle, mercifully stopping before it bored down into the scapula beneath. The superior ligament that stretched above the scapula had been damaged, however, which meant limited range of motion. Even with the arm in a sling, moving around now was all but guaranteeing the small tears would get worse.

Clear golden eyes flicked to him, almost calculatingly.

He'd not seen Edward in this condition before, and while he would never miss the subdued, agreeable patient he'd first had in Edward Elric, a feisty one was almost as bad.

"And the rebound you experienced almost killed you. I know you feel pretty good, but you're not. You can't do any good out there."

Then he turned on the Prime Minister, stepping forward as Mustang had the audacity to reach for the shunt in his arm. He neither saw nor heard motion, but abruptly an iron clamp crushed down atop his shoulder, effectively stopping all forward movement.

He didn't even try to resist, freezing dead in his tracks. "Tell me what you know, and I'll make sure the right people hear about it." If Mustang knew what had happened to these two patients, and expected more –

More would be a catastrophe. They were already stretched to their limits caring for the people sickened by the radiation. And any type of massive circulatory failure of this nature was going to result in serious illness or death, and possible removal of the affected limbs. If they were talking about amputees in the hundreds –

Because thousands would be unthinkable.

Mustang turned away from Elric to look at him, and he could see the narcotic had already taken some effect. His pupil had dilated beyond what the dim light in the room would precipitate.

"You can't give orders at this time, Prime Minister." How many times had he repeated it?

The Flame Alchemist paused, staring at the line in his arm a moment. He probably wanted to rip it out anyway; the combination of steroids, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatories stung quite strongly. Usually they slowed the drip so it went in a little easier, but as fast as they needed to get it into his system . . .

"What's happened to those people?"

Mustang looked up again, this time at the two bodyguards in the room. His face never changed expression, but his voice was even more hoarse than it had been before when he replied.

"You said they came from different sites. Where?"

He'd already tried matching these victims to something, with little success. "The 17 year old male collapsed on Plantir, which I understand was the site of some of the heaviest radiation. The second patient is a fifty-three year old woman who lives on the east side, on Palladin."

The other four men in the room were silent, and Patterson continued staring at the Prime Minister. "What do you mean, the old man said . . .?"

"What were they doing? Do you know?"

He glanced in irritation at Edward. Why was it no one ever took him seriously? Didn't they realize how utterly miserable he could make their stay here?

"The young man was walking home from work. The grandmother collapsed while doing the laundry."

His two patients exchanged another look.

"Water," Edward finally said. "The kid might have had some before heading home. He put it in the water."

So some old man put something in the water? To destroy what Bradley had been working for?

What substance would cause such a reaction, though? There were muscles in the abdomen that contracted, assisting with blood flow to the lower extremities. He'd already determined that system was being paralyzed, but he couldn't explain the sudden, huge buildup of proteins on the eyes. Proteins were in normal tears, but these were bonding together like . . . well, like glue.

There was no substance he could think of that would cause both symptoms. Not to mention, there was something else at work, to stop circulation so quickly. Likely it was also weak in the other extremities, just not as pronounced –

But even if someone had contaminated the water supply purposefully . . . it was already too late. The young man had been near the scene of the attacking alchemist's death, but the older woman had been doing her laundry more than eight blocks away. If it had truly spread that far through the water subsystems –

Then it was already too late for half the city.

"If that's true, it's already affected hundreds." Accepting that they had an epidemic on their hands, the next thing to do would be limit the damages. "I'll alert the hospital administrator to have the water main cut off. The Speak of the House can get on the radio ,and warn everyone the city water's been contaminated." But getting potable drinking water into the city, on such short notice, with as many as were bound to be sick –

It was the best they could do. "General Hakuro is likely still in the building, he can handle the military portion."

"The main supply house." Mustang swallowed painfully. "Tell them. They may be able to isolate it and dilute the water in the pipes."

The less toxin, the less serious the symptoms. He nodded, unsurprised when the hand clamped down on his shoulder released him. "I'll make the appropriate calls."

He didn't wait for an answer; no need. Whatever they did now, containment was the most important thing. It didn't matter who had done this, or why. He'd need to be a bit careful on his phrasing, but he knew his department head had personal relationships with enough of the government officials to figure out who needed to hear what. It couldn't sound like it had come from the Prime Minister, but he doubted it would need to.

And no matter how quickly the government acted on this, they were looking at mass panic and high casualties. Whoever this old man who wanted to 'reduce it to dust' was, he may well have gotten his wish.

- x -

"It's not gonna cut it."

Mustang let his eye close, trying not to enjoy the sudden absence of the penetrating throb in his skull. His arm still burned, and he clung to that pain as tightly as he could.

It was the only way he was going to keep a clear head.

"I know." God, if the poison had gotten that far into the pipes, they were looking at a death toll in the thousands. Not counting panic, evacuation of the city into outlying villages, and the gleaming opportunity for the military to demonstrate it hadn't changed since Bradley. If the people fought the curfew that had been imposed in their attempt to flee the city, and some captain somewhere got the bright idea not to let them go –

Irving had said that he was going to see them in every home, around every corner, just as Elric had passed out if not before. Which meant he'd already put the plan into motion, before he'd even met them. Hawkeye had said the letter had been delivered that morning, so had the same person who delivered it visited the city utility station?

If so, why hadn't anyone fallen sick before now?

There were many solids a poison could be contained within that would take time to dissolve in water. If he was that good with compounds, doubtlessly Irving could ensure the poison entered the water supply only when he wanted it to, and not before, no matter how early he'd had to plant it.

Obviously, if 'Bradley' had honored his part of the deal, Irving had probably meant to swing back into Central to get it, or place an anonymous phone call warning the utility teams of a suspicious object or package. Which meant at some point, this poisoning had been reversible.

Roy opened his eye again, staring now at the two bodyguards, still regarding them silently. He could swear them to silence and they'd probably keep to it, since technically he outranked the Speaker . . .

"Hey, guys. Do you know where I can get some clothes?"

Roy picked up his head to stare at Edward, who had somehow sat up in the interim and was tentatively moving his left shoulder in small circles. His expression was almost blank, but the stilted way in which he moved clearly gave away the discomfort. Two long rows of black stitches were visible along his back, one crossing his spine at the downward angle, the other trailing straight down from the top of his left shoulder. He'd spoken to the guards, looking between the two of them as if he thought they might actually respond to him.

Where the hell did he think he was going?

. . . was he thinking of transmuting the poison out of the water . . .?

Elric couldn't transmute that volume of water in perfect condition, let alone now -

"No." His voice was slightly stronger, but not much. There were literally tons of materials that made up a three-story building. Trying to find the old man's body – and his amplifier, which obviously wouldn't taint the water like the one Havoc was guarding – was a fool's errand. It would require him to transmute.

An odd expression flashed across Edward's face. "I was thinking chemistry." His tone was dry. "If he hit the main water supply station, we can boil down samples, see what we're dealing with. At least if the unaffected alchemists know what they're looking for –"

There weren't enough suitably skilled non-certified alchemists in the area for that. "It's too close to human transmutation-"

"Kimblee used that method to blow up his own soldiers, and that bastard never paid the Gate," Edward shot back. "Do you have a better idea?"

He stared at Edward for a long moment before his brain was capable of processing the argument. "Kimblee didn't remove the materials, he transmuted them within the human body."

Edward hesitated, still searching the room, presumably for something to wear. "Even concentrating a toxin to one part of the body would be better than nothing. I'm certain these people wouldn't lament the loss of a toe if it meant their lives."

That was probably true. It was still going to be difficult, but perhaps if the doctors knew what sorts of toxins their patients had come in contact with, a combination of medical science and alchemy could save the lives of some.

"A regiments' worth of uniforms was brought in from headquarters."

The voice was completely unfamiliar, and Roy contemplated that a moment before he realized the speaker was, in fact, one of the Speaker's bodyguards.

Edward looked neither surprised nor pleased. "Military uniforms?"

"Your rank is major, correct?"

Mustang continued staring as the shorter of the two guards pulled open the door and strode out. It closed with a snap, leaving them with a single mountain of guard. The guard returned his gaze after a moment, raising an eyebrow slightly. Mustang gave up, and leaned back against the pillows again.

No matter how much he wanted to do anything but lay here, he knew he couldn't afford to make another stupid decision.

That was what Edward Elric was for, apparently. A pity Alphonse had already left.

"Call one of the chemists." There was no point in sending Edward out into the streets at this time of night, certainly not as injured as he was.

"Curfew," Ed reminded him. "None of the chemists in the Academy are technically in the military. It would take them too long to get there. I want to get there before the utility station closes down the pumps."

Of course, the engineers could take the samples – but they didn't know what they were looking for. In a way, Edward was right; both the ink on the letter and the poison on the knife had had a glistening quality, like a cured gel. Perhaps this one would, too. In any case, a trip to the utility station, which was less than a mile from the military hospital, was unlikely to get the man into any more trouble than pacing the hospital was going to.

Roy shook his head once, slightly alarmed at his own rationalization. This is what Patterson considered a mild narcotic?

"There should still be five or six lieutenants in the lobby. Take them with you." That, at least, significantly lowered the chances of Edward getting into trouble. It would also facilitate their getting through checkpoints.

Edward snorted, but didn't protest. "I'll take the samples to the Academy."

He just nodded. "Tell Hakuro what you're doing."

Mustang could feel the glare he was receiving, almost like radiant heat. ". . . are you kidding me?"

"Extra personnel." The general would give Edward all the manpower he needed to communicate his findings as efficiently as possible, and possibly enough to transport key physicists and chemists from their homes to the Academy, if an antidote could be easily determined. The military's cooperation would be key, and despite their distaste for one another, he couldn't imagine the general balking when he realized the seriousness of the situation.

Unless he wanted to hold Edward to the letter of the law . . .?

Surely, with the city in this state, he wouldn't dare. He obeyed authority, and he'd know damn well Edward's authority was coming from him. Incapacitated or not.

The door opened without ceremony, admitting the missing bodyguard. His counterpart did not react at all, which Mustang found a little odd, considering the consistency with which he'd otherwise acted. Had they really worked together so long?

These men were almost worth stealing. They wouldn't have let him get away with his little stunt this morning.

"I'm not certain of your size," the guard explained, offering a neatly folded, dark blue cube that contained dress pants, an undertunic, an overcoat, the appropriately ranked tassels, socks, and combat boots. A proper uniform.

He wasn't actually sure that Edward had ever worn his military uniform. Alphonse had possibly worn one before Ed had. Not officially, of course, since it had been the uniform of a officer of much higher rank, used in an illegal sabotage of a uranium bomb.

He almost commented on it, but his throat really hurt too much. Edward seemed to infer it, though, glaring at the uniform for a moment before unabashedly throwing the sheet aside, shaking out the neatly pressed and folded uniform.

"Don't think it's going to happen again."

No one responded to his gripe.

Despite his lack of experience, the injured Elric made quick work of the uniform he'd been given. The bodyguard had chosen the right size; probably larger than Kain's, but not much. Roy had barely blinked before Edward was seated at the foot of his mattress, easing his other boot on.

"What's this for?" He put his armored foot on the floor, shoving it down to get the rest of the boot on, and held up a neat folded square of white cloth, far too large to be a handkerchief.

"A sling," the shorter bodyguard informed him.

They'd respond to Elric, but not to him?

. . . definitely worth stealing.

Ed just raised an eyebrow, in the act of dropping it back onto the bed when that bodyguard took a single step towards him. At that point, it seemed to occur to Edward that he was being allowed to leave the room, rather than making a decision to do so. And at any time, either of the guards in the room could change their minds.

He sighed, picking it back up and shaking it out. "Funny, the last time I got my ass kicked in Central my automail ended up in a sling, too."

Roy almost smiled. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and he'd had more important things to do than visit his subordinate, especially considering what had happened almost directly after –

That was the second time that day Edward had reminded him of Maes.

"Be careful."

Elric gave him another odd, un-Edward-like look, choosing to put the sling over his neck before gently laying his almost useless right arm into it. He stood slowly, clearly not entirely sure where the floor was, and then dug up an arrogant smirk. "Don't think I can boil water?"

Assuming the poison would actually be left behind, rather than go up with the steam – but Edward was a scientist. He didn't need the reminder; he'd already suffered once today because of those poisons. Still, once the announcement went out that the water was unsafe to drink, that uniform would make him a target. He'd need to get to the supply station and back onto military grounds as soon as he could.

"That was the first thing I ever did without a transmutation circle," Edward said suddenly. Then he smiled, a little sadly, and shook his head. "I'll be careful."

Mustang watched him walk, amazingly steadily, to the door, and the shorter guard gave him a once-over before opening it, permitting him to leave. "I notified the lieutenants," he remarked casually, as if giving an update on the weather outside.

Ed just lifted his left hand. "Thanks," he called over his shoulder. Then the door was closed behind him, and once again, Mustang was alone with his two bodyguards.

He'd have to ask them their names. He knew they'd been given to him, but it was a long time ago, and his attention had been too divided to properly commit them to memory.

Mustang closed his eye again, constructing an aerial map of Central in his head. Assuming a mass exodus from the city, their best option was to provide secured routes for those wishing to flee to do so. Open routes would mean less panic, the people would see that the military was looking towards their safety, which might calm them. In fact, they might want to ensure those routes were open before the Speaker addressed the people, but he wasn't sure his military could be coordinated that quickly. It was most imperative to stop anyone else from drinking or coming in contact with the water, particularly to the east parts of the city –

No knock on the door, this time. He heard it open, and opened his eye in time to see Patterson glaring at the shockingly still bodyguards. They had made no move to impede his entrance to the room.

How had they known . . .? Were they listening to footsteps? Had they learned his that quickly?

"Where's Elric?"

Roy glanced over at the bed, then tried to feign surprise.

It was clear the young doctor didn't believe him. "Damn it!" He tossed a clipboard on the empty bed, rubbing his face briskly with his suddenly free hand. "He's going to be in bad shape in about twenty minutes." It was muttered, partially obscured as he dragged his hand down his face. "Once the drugs work their way out of his system –"

"He can handle it." In twenty minutes, he should be safe in the Academy walls. They could probably have some of the chemists picked up from their homes by the military and waiting for him when he arrived. If Edward had done as he'd asked and notified Hakuro, the general would probably have come to the same conclusion.

Of course, that was a big if.

"I know," Patterson said quietly, still standing by the foot of the empty bed. "Want to tell me what was so important that he had to go?"

"Samples."

The doctor shook his head, approaching his bedside, and slowly reached out for his face. Mustang held still as the doctor pried his eyelid up, staring intently at him for a moment before frowning. "You should be out like a light," he muttered, almost to himself. "Your chest isn't hurting, is it?"

Mustang carefully kept his expression blank. The doc had already admitted he couldn't do anything about the rebound anyway. "Can't tell."

"I'll bet." The doctor released him, fishing around in his coat pockets. "You need to sleep, Prime Minister."

He shook his head even as the searching came up with another syringe. "No."

"You forget, you have no official authority anymore," the doctor reminded him, circling around the bed to his left. "Worrying is not going to help. Trust me."

If someone put him out, he was probably going to be asleep for days. "Not yet." His voice was far too coarse for the plea to come through, but Patterson heard it anyway, reluctantly pausing.

"Listen to me, Roy. This situation is bad enough. Every hour you continue like this, you're adding days to your recovery time. You have a lot of fine officers in your command. Trust them."

The needle was in the long tube before he could formulate a reasonable protest. There really wasn't one. Parliament had kept Amestris together for years. Hakuro and Patterson had enough information to take the appropriate steps. Elric would do what he could to nail down the poison, and there was enough trust among the State Alchemists now to do what had to be done.

There really was nothing else to do but wait.

The burning in his arm disappeared completely, but after several breaths he found he was still awake. Patterson was studying him, regretfully capping the syringe. In the dim light, he could see it was still half-full.

"I am an idiot," Patterson announced quietly. "We'll wait an hour for news, if you promise me you'll stay in this bed and rest."

Roy inclined his head. "What happened to the old woman?" He'd called her a grandmother . . . so she had a family, as well. If she'd cooked them a late dinner, if one of them was drawing a bath –

Patterson pursed his lips. "Her husband's with her."

So, dying.

"Any more?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"What about Heymans and Kain?"

The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder. "Promise me you'll stop worrying, too."

This time he didn't move. That wasn't a promise he could keep. "They're no better?"

"They're stable for now." An ambiguous answer if ever there was one.

Roy took a deep breath, trying to fight off a sudden chill. "How did the old woman get here?" Were they called, could they expect more? Did they need to set up some kind of radio relay system with the soldiers already out in the streets, to triage the sickened?

"Her husband brought her in." Patterson sat on the edge of the bed, apparently deciding answering his questions was going to be more effective than leaving him in the dark to imagine the worst. "He'd just gotten home, so they hadn't eaten yet. It doesn't appear he was affected."

So they were going to have to rely on people bringing them into the hospital. With the curfew, few would venture out until the symptoms were bad. They needed a method to get them to clinics as quickly as possible while still keeping the peace –

Roy blinked. It was nearly midnight, what old man would just now be getting home, and what wife would wait so patiently to eat until then? The husband was still here, he'd said . . .

"Can you do me a favor?"

Patterson nodded. "Anything you need."

"Can you ask the old woman's husband where he was earlier?" If she was doing laundry before they even ate, perhaps he'd been part of the cleanup efforts, in which case maybe this really was somehow related to the feedback. It was a one in a million chance, of course, given Irving's threats and the poisons, and the symptoms of the illness, but if for any reason it wasn't the water –

Patterson just nodded. "Sure. I'll be right back. If you go anywhere –"

He'd probably be unconscious for the next week, when the doctor caught up with him. "I'll be here."

- x -

**Author's Notes**: So they have a plan! Ed's in a uniform! But WAIT! What if they're wrong? . . .yeah, that's my sad attempt at trying to make this chapter interesting. I tried. ; ) It's late, and I'm a terrible author. I looked for typos, and there shouldn't be many, but I apologize for the ones that are there, and hope that you nice readers will point them out to me! It's wrapping up. The next chapter really should be the last. Really! You've never heard me say that before, right? . . . right?


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

It was getting harder to hide his winces, and he found himself staring out the window, letting his somewhat matted bangs hide his face.

It wasn't the driver's fault, after all. He wasn't hitting bumps on purpose.

Whatever Doc had been giving him, it was wearing off. And he was starting to get the impression leaving without getting topped off with a bit more of it had been a very, very bad idea. His shoulder was jolted by the tiniest vibration, and his back felt as if it was leaning against hot pokers. He was also starting to become nauseous again, and he was pretty sure his shoulder was bleeding into the armor, based on a weird, sticky tickling he felt on his right wrist. So far, it hadn't bled through, but when it did, it was going to be impossible to hide on the white sling.

Why the hell was he wearing it, since it wasn't doing him a damn bit of good?

Edward gritted his teeth as they rattled over a cobblestone crossing, marking the old downtown from the newer portions. Both the driver and front passenger were men he'd never seen before, and outside of curious glances they'd taken his orders without question. They were following a pair of red tail-lights, marking the other vehicle of four other officers, and so far had only been asked to slow through checkpoints. They were making excellent time, so he wasn't about to ask them to slow down because he was getting jostled in the backseat.

There was just enough light by streetlamp that he occasionally could see his own reflection in the glass of the window. He found himself looking at it more often than not, because there really wasn't much else to see. A blue-clad soldier with a standard-issue rifle every hundred yards or so, but of course they were just off HQ grounds and heading down King, which ran parallel with Tracer. He wouldn't expect to see any rioting yet.

Tracer was likely another story altogether.

But he knew they weren't avoiding it because of potential looting. That street was impassible, since it was still destroyed from the day's events. King was just as major an avenue, and as they passed one familiar intersection after another, it struck him as no small irony that his day had pretty much started on King.

He'd followed Mustang down this avenue just this morning. Technically yesterday morning, actually, since it was after midnight. And he found himself hoping it would end on King, since the utility supply station was only about a mile down the street. Hopefully it had been spared the fighting; he didn't think he could take a much bumpier ride than they were already getting and still be able to walk around the supply station.

So he focused on the passing store and homefronts. There weren't many people out on the street outside of the soldiers. The quietness of it all, so close to downtown and the capitol, seemed out of place. If the water was affected eight blocks to the east, it stood to reason it would have been affected on the same black as the station itself. Then again, the stores would have been closed when the fighting started, so they might not have drawn as much water out of the pipes.

With any luck, the west side of the city could be spared altogether.

The idea of saving only a section of the city being lucky was almost as nauseating as the next bump.

"What do you make of that?"

Ed didn't think the lieutenants – Habber and Scholey, he thought – were speaking with him, but he turned away from the window, catching sight of a hollow-eyed, exhausted face framed with drooping blonde hair as he did so.

He looked rough. No wonder the lieutenants had done a double-take.

They were currently slowing as they approached a fairly large congregation of people, some in the middle of the road. Edward sharpened his attention, trying to determine the attitude of the crowd, but they seemed to be willing to part for the first car, which slowed considerably but drove through the group. An entire fleet of large delivery trucks was parked up and down the avenue, lining both sides of the street but allowing more than enough room for the military convoy to pass.

They were halfway through the uniformly light blue-clad crowd before Ed realized who they were.

It was the printing press. The mob was actually a series of workers, loading up the trucks for the early morning delivery of the Saturday Post.

In fact, the very next left was the alley he'd pulled into earlier that day, following Mustang's car.

"Wonder what the headline is."

"When we come back through we can stop and ask. They usually give free copies to the enlisted."

Ed's eyes flicked out the side windows, where a particularly thick circle seemed to be gathered around something. The looks they were getting from the loading workers weren't particularly friendly, which made him doubt the driving lieutenant's words. This group didn't look like it was about to give them anything for free but a knuckle sandwich.

Of course they'd be distrustful of the military right now. Bradley would have squashed the press altogether if he'd been trying to hide rumors of a Philosopher's Stone.

They cruised through the group, and Ed turned his head, shifting in the backseat to coddle his shoulder as he continued to watch the tightest group. This side of them was open, showing that something was lying on the ground in the center of the group –

Someone.

"Stop the car!"

Even if he was just one sickened, obviously the contaminated water had gotten this far. The press would have an excellent communications system, they could probably do as much as the Speaker to get the word to the rest of the city as quickly as possible.

And at least he could warn the others off the water.

Edward was thrown forward as the car slammed to a halt, unthinkingly raising his right elbow to catch himself before he was thrown between the two front seats. Unfortunately, his elbow was attached to a very weak shoulder, which was no match for his momentum. He still caught himself as the upper half of his arm wedged between the seats, and Edward held his breath for several seconds after the car had halted before he trusted himself to move.

"I'm sorry, Major Elric sir!" His flight had not gone unnoticed, nor his having to use his 'busted' automail to catch himself, but they wouldn't really understand the pain. Edward was pretty sure all the blood had drained from his face.

"It's fine. Just wrenched the port a little." His voice sounded very tight, even to his own ears, and he cursed inwardly as he threw open the door and crawled out of the car to stand on the street. The cool evening air – and the now-throbbing pain in his shoulder – did a lot to make him forget about his roiling stomach, and Edward blinked several times, trying to steady his slightly swimming vision.

"They didn't even notice," he heard one of the lieutenants say behind him, but he didn't turn. He wasn't talking about the crowd in front of them; judging by the number of eyes on them, they had very clearly noticed. Then again, the car had stopped with a squeal of tires. Obviously his driver was a very literal sort of officer.

Edward found himself facing a veritable army of suspicious, uniformed men. There were a few white shirts in with the light blue, indicating reports, editors, staff, or other publishing company employees. It was impossible to tell who was in charge, so he just started walking directly for the tight circle of employees.

"You have an injured man?" He figured that was as good a greeting as any to indicate they weren't there to interrupt the paper's delivery, even if the headline was "Prime Minister Assassinated! Drachman Army Already Taken East City!"

A few of the glares lessened, and the nearest employee to him nodded. "Probably just the radiation got to him is all –"

"Can we lend assistance?" It was the press, after all. Mustang would kill him if he mouthed off while in uniform, particularly with reporters around. He glanced behind him to find the two lieutenants flanking him, and the distant red tail-lights of the other car of officers.

They hadn't stopped.

Not that it mattered. He'd told them their mission; secure the utility station. They were just following orders.

They could alert the engineers while they dealt with this.

He continued forward, a little relieved when the crowd parted. Their colleague was a young man, also clad in the publishing company's uniform. He was propped up, someone's jacket folded beneath his head. The press had their own lamps attached to the building to better illuminate their loading and staging area, and even in the yellow light of the gas flames he could see the man was deathly pale. Sweat had collected on his upper lip, and his eyes were closed. A quiet but constant moan was the only indication he was still conscious. His gloved hand was being held by a grizzled man in a short-sleeved shirt, clenching a forgotten toothpick between his teeth.

An uncomfortable knot settled in Ed's gut. Was this what the other man had looked like, and the older woman? Was this what he was going to see when he returned to the hospital?

"What happened?" He knew better than to transmute, but he knelt beside the man, mirroring the position of the older gentleman on the other side. It was too chilly out to be comfortable in a short-sleeved shirt; obviously this man was the owner of the pillowing coat, which probably meant a foreman or manager.

The other man eyed him up and down before meeting his gaze, nodding once to himself in apparent approval. "He's been pale for a bit, but thought he could manage the rest of the shift. Probably just caught whatever's floating around in the air. We're clean, and the street's clean, but another one of my boys had to call it quits earlier."

Edward reached for the man's wrist, slipping his fingers beneath the ink-stained glove to find a fast, weak pulse and clammy skin. Then he shifted, his fingertips brushing the man's face as he went for an eyelid. The sick man twitched, and his eyes flew open -

It was hard to tell in the firelight, but they certainly didn't look clear.

"It's in the water." He gave the sick man the friendliest smile he could manage before turning back to the older one. "You the foreman?"

He heard a scoff behind him, a little angry-sounding. "He's the editor."

Well, that was easy. "Don't let your men drink the water. It's been . . . contaminated with something. It'll make them sick." A sharp murmuring grew at his words, but Ed spoke over it. "We need your help. Can we impose upon you to pass that warning along?" Surely the information network was active day and night -

The editor finally remembered the toothpick, plucking it out from between his lips. "You're a major, eh? Look pretty beaten up, which makes me think you're not pulling my leg. Who's your CO?"

Luckily, the State Alchemists had been even more removed from the military since Mustang had been elected. "The Prime Minister. I'm a National Alchemist."

He got a raised eyebrow. "I'd like to see some proof of that before I start pulling my boys off their delivery routes."

Ed was already reaching for his watch when he realized he didn't have it. It was likely with the rest of his clothes, which had been filthy and torn to pieces. It might have been in the hospital room, but he hadn't even looked for it before he headed out.

Then again, the truth couldn't hurt any more than a lie. "Left it in my hospital room."

The editor gave him another once-over, focusing hard on his arm. "Let me guess. Edward Elric."

Ed tried not to look shocked, and recovered as best he could. "Busted automail give me away?"

"I met Elric once, as a kid. And his brother, too." The editor was giving him a hard look. "I was covering the story when he passed the exam and the practical, about ten years ago. The sling's a nice touch. Let me guess; you ripped the arm off some poor, unsuspecting museum piece and you couldn't get the damn stuff to stay together, right?"

Edward tried not to scowl. It was only natural the editor of the paper would be suspicious of three soldiers with no evidence of who they were. "I don't care if you believe me. Believe this. Your man is sick. And another before him."

Only then did it click.

"The other employee, the one you sent home – how old was he?"

The editor was already leaning back, apparently suspicious of an incoming attack. Around them, Ed began to catch mutters.

"They're here to squash the story-"

"Only three?"

"How'd they know-"

"What if there're more?"

"No business of yours," the editor replied sharply, refocusing Ed's attention. The grizzled man seemed caught between wanting to stand and wanting to protect his sick employee. "You have ten seconds to get your uniform-stealing asses out of here before we deliver you to the nearest security checkpoint."

The circle of men, which had been slowly closing in to hear their conversation, increased their rate of encroachment. Behind him, Edward heard an unmistakable metallic click. The muttering that had been increasing in volume dropped in pitch, to a much deeper, unsettling rumble.

He turned his head sharply, not bothering to hide the wince this time. "Don't!" How stupid could they be, threatening thirty laborers with four pistols between them? He turned back to the editor, finding him half-standing, eyes narrow. "Listen to me –"

"I'm not going to listen to you any more than I would a thug in a wig. The hell you're Edward Elric." He raised his eyes to his men. "Get out of here! Go! Don't stop for nothin'!

He thought they were there to stop the paper delivery.

And they needed to.

If the kid that Mustang and Patterson had been talking about was the same kid the editor had sent home, that meant two employees of the paper had gotten sick. That didn't necessarily mean much, since it was thirsty work loading tons of paper into trucks, but –

But it was paper.

If Johann Irving could put into ink a compound that sickened, he could put one on a newspaper. One that killed.

Edward found himself dodging the swing before his conscious mind had really detected the meaty fist that had been aimed for his jaw. He fell backwards awkwardly, but it didn't matter; the editor had swung wide with no intention of hitting him. He was just trying to get him away from his downed man. A line of employees moved to protect their editor, and it occurred to Edward that the odds were not with them.

A sharp gunshot rang out, almost directly behind him, and the line of men froze in their tracks. There was a pregnant pause, and then Edward felt a hand curl beneath his left arm.

He was firmly pulled to his feet, and he had to catch himself when he realized it was one of the lieutenants – Scholey, he reminded himself. His pistol was pointed at the sky, and his expression was serious.

"Stay back," he ordered the crowd.

Habber had also drawn his weapon, and he was pointing it in the direction of their car. "Any aggression towards Amestrian forces during a Parliament-instated curfew will result in the use of deadly force!"

Edward didn't even wait a breath. Thirty against three, even with the pistols, wasn't in their favor.

There was an easy way to determine whether or not he was right.

Ed turned immediately to the truck nearest them, just behind them. Neat stacks of newspapers, tied with brown packing string, were piled almost to the ceiling. He reached up with his left hand, dragging the nearest group towards him. He was careful only to touch the string; every last employee he could see was wearing gloves.

They had to. The ink from the newspapers would stain their hands black by the end of the night if they didn't.

Which meant they wouldn't get sick. They'd be able to deliver every last paper before going home to read their own fresh copy.

"Major, I think it might be appropriate to summon backup-"

"Drop it already!" The shout was mirrored by others, less articulate. "The military wouldn't send just three soldiers!"

He could hear engines turning over as their drivers obeyed the urgency in the voice of the paper's editor. He fought with the packing string, wishing that he could transmute his armor into a knife and just cut the damn stuff –

Edward grabbed the topknot of the string, hurling the entire bundle onto the pavement. The glint on the ink was unmistakable; it looked wet even though the string hadn't smeared it.

Just like the ink on the letter.

It was on the newspapers. Everyone who was anyone in the city received a Saturday paper. And it would be completely undetected by the staff, since they all wore gloves. Unless they took a break, and like he'd postulated in his lie to Hakuro earlier, they'd touched their gloves when they'd removed them.

But if it was on the paper, how did the old woman doing her laundry –

Who did laundry at midnight? And if she was doing laundry, and was a grandmother, then maybe she had a husband, one who came home at midnight because that was when the presses shut down for the paper delivery.

"It's on the papers!"

Scholey and Habber exchanged a look amid derisive jeers from the crowd around them.

"First the water, now the papers!"

"How stupid can you get?!"

"Where's the damn army when you need them-"

The engines.

Some of the trucks were already driving away. And his other lieutenants had gone on to the utility station.

The three of them couldn't stop all the trucks in time.

Edward cursed, dodging between his truck and the one beside it rather than trying to fight his way through the angry crowd. The space between the trucks was clear, and gave him a path to the street. There were moving trucks going both directions on King, already almost half a block away –

"Start shooting tires!" They could stop the other trucks, if they weren't overwhelmed by the crowds. The gunshot should bring the local soldiers running, and if they had radios, reinforcements, but there were five trucks already out –

Edward dodged out of the way as the vehicle behind him suddenly rumbled to life, nearly mowing him down as it pulled out. He couldn't tell if the driver wanted to hit him or was just trying to get away from the guns. It drew his gaze down the street, where he could see the trucks were gaining momentum, veering both to the right and the left sidewalks -

No. The alleys. The alleys between the buildings had been wider than his car. They were just wide enough to permit a delivery truck.

They were trying to get themselves out of the line of gunfire.

But the trucks were heading to both sides of the street. Tracer was one block east, and it was impassable –

Only parts of it. The drivers had probably already taken that into account when they'd planned their routes. He didn't have to just stop the north and southbound trucks.

He had to stop them in all directions.

Edward whipped around, and found the trucks that had been heading south were also heading towards the alleys, but keeping to the west side of the street.

At least that was one less route for him to worry about.

Edward hurried to the center of the street, searching the crowd in an attempt to locate his lieutenants. Scholey was trying to hold back the men that hadn't jumped for a truck, and Habber was nowhere to be seen.

What he wouldn't give to have Hawkeye there. He could at least count on her to stop a couple of them.

As it was, there was really nothing else for it.

A distant honk drew his attention back to the north end of the street. Oncoming headlights dazzled him, veering wildly from one side of the street to the other. The two delivery trucks fleeing in that direction were slowing, not sure how to get around this new barrier.

Buying him time to stop the south-bound ones.

Without hesitation, Edward brought his left hand in contact with his limp right, and dropped to the pavement, painfully aware of a tearing sensation in his back. A blinding flash of alchemic light shot down the pavement towards the south-bound vehicles. It spread out as it reached the three alleys that led between the buildings on the block, and he concentrated, forcing the same transmutation he'd last performed; he created walls.

Ed could feel the materials and structures plainly, though he couldn't see them clearly, and they were responding as they should. He limited the walls to four feet to conserve energy, and when he was certain all six were appropriately thick, he picked his left hand up off the ground, and took a tentative breath.

For the briefest moment, he thought he was home free. He felt sick and weak, but no worse than he had as a passenger in the car. It was when he was turning in his crouch that it really hit him. A sharp pang crawled through his lungs as if attempting to escape his chest through them. It resonated around his broken rib, winding him as completely as a fall directly onto his back would have done.

So doc was right. Transmuting was a bad idea. And he'd created only half of the walls he'd need to block off the publishing house.

Edward looked up at the sound of tires screeching, too close for comfort, but his vision was blurring, and all he could make out were various points of light, some brighter than others. He focused on the red ones. Red ones were taillights. Red ones were delivery trucks.

There were gunshots, but he ignored them, bringing his hands together again and concentrating only on using the bare minimum energy to complete the transmutation.

The other trucks could be as far as a block out. He wasn't sure he could transmute that far.

He wasn't sure he'd survive it.

Edward ground his teeth, attempting another reaction, this time at a greater distance. He felt the drain instantly; though the ingredients were responding to the reaction, he felt that same, odd pain in his chest that he'd felt fighting the other alchemist. It didn't hurt a terrible amount, but it brought with it an overwhelming prickling sensation, one he couldn't breathe through. Couldn't think through.

It actually felt like the pavement was forcibly draining his energy, instead of his feeding it.

The reaction. He was losing control of the reaction.

And there were too many bystanders for that.

Edward curled his left hand into a fist, twisting it so that his palm was no longer in contact with the pavement. It was hard to stop transmuting; the reaction continued without his concentration, and trying to pull his hand away was unnaturally difficult. He finally yanked his arm up by the shoulder, dropping his crouch to kneel on the pavement.

He couldn't finish it. The trucks were out of his range.

Edward felt himself slip sideways, surprised when he encountered an object while still basically upright. It looked like there was a wall of light where he'd been attempting to transmute, and he blinked several times, trying to get everything in focus.

What in the world . . . ?

Once he stopped transmuting, things started to become a little clearer. He found he was leaning against a tire, which meant the screeching he'd heard had been a delivery truck. He could feel the heat rolling off it in the chill air, which was a little odd, since it should have been on a relatively short time. There were people hurrying around him, but one figure in particular caught his attention. It was a straight-backed, standing several feet in front of him, and it was still.

Edward picked up his head, surprised to find it had been resting on the wheel well, and took another deep breath.

That wall of light in the distance was moving.

And silhouetted against the wall of fire, the uniform in front of him looked black –

Because it was.

And if those trucks had been out of his range, they were probably just on the edge of Mustang's.

Some of the voices started to cut through the haze, but he ignored them. He focused on the distance, then wearily raised his left hand to his bound right, one more time. A wall of flame about eight feet high was one thing. A wall of flame that encompassed not only the wide avenue but also curved around to block the alleys on both sides was another altogether. The fire seemed to be burning on the street edge of the sidewalk, so he was also putting forth effort not only to keep the fire burning, but to keep it from igniting the storefronts. Ed knew Mustang was good, but the amount of atmospheric manipulation needed to continue feeding that fire while still controlling it was going to drain him soon enough.

The hell they were both going to kill themselves.

He put his hand to the pavement, allowing the vehicle beside him – probably a Parliament or military car, since Mustang and his men had to have arrived in something – to support him completely as he transmuted. It was a surface transmutation; he watched the energy crackle out to disappear into the light of the fires. Very shortly, the amount of light they were emitting increased, and the figure in front of him seemed to change shape.

"Edward, stop!"

If they continued to transmute, they were going to kill themselves. He could still see the trucks moving back and forth in front of the fire, so the drivers were still looking for a way out. Therefore they needed to find a way to keep the fire going without having to constantly use alchemy to sustain it, at least until someone could pull the drivers out of their vehicles.

The easiest way to do that was to give the fire something to burn besides oxygen.

He paid close attention to the pain in his chest, allowing it to dictate when he stopped. It was sooner than he would have liked; he couldn't push the reaction out past the first two alleys on both sides, leaving the width of the entire avenue and the two furthest alleys to Mustang.

But he'd cut the required area in half.

Mustang didn't have to babysit those fires anymore. Now they were burning tar. He'd bubbled enough out of the pavement to keep them going for a little while, at least.

Edward took a breath, surprised when he couldn't feel it. He could hear himself, inhaling and exhaling, but there was no associated sensation at all. No cold. No expansion. He couldn't even feel the broken rib.

"How much longer?" It was his voice, but he couldn't feel his lips moving.

"A few minutes."

A few minutes.

Roy was still transmuting.

Could he maintain that fire for a few minutes?

"It's on the papers."

"I know."

Edward watched the lights and the shadows that occasionally crossed in front of his field of vision, afraid that if his eyes closed he wouldn't open them again. Hopefully the alchemy and the appearance of the Prime Minister would be enough to sway the editor, and get him to have his people help stop the other trucks. Considering with the fire burning and the walls he'd transmuted, they'd effectively cut off the military's ability to reinforce them.

That had been bad planning.

Of course, if there wasn't military personnel waiting on the other side of those walls of fire, there would be shortly. Even if the fires died back, it was unlikely the trucks were going to get away.

Edward's eyes shifted up, towards Mustang. He was still standing, straight and sure, his raised right hand a dull white in the reflected light of the distant fires and streetlamps.

Someone had gotten him his ignition gloves, then.

Someone had gotten him his uniform jacket, too.

"Let it go." The trucks would be stopped before they made their deliveries. If Roy was here, it meant he'd also figured out the connection to the publishing house, which probably meant their first assumption about the water was wrong.

So it really was over.

It seemed an eternity before Mustang agreed, and the amount of light on the street decreased sharply as the other man lowered his hand. He staggered back a step, leaning hard against the trunk of the car, and the two of them stared down the street. The tar-burning fires were still going, but they had lowered pretty significantly. It didn't seem like any of the buildings had caught fire.

Ed blinked, genuinely surprised when he opened his eyes again to find himself still on the street, leaning against the car.

"When'd you figure it out?"

Incoming headlights. Lots of them.

The cavalry.

"Right after you left."

Figured.

Ed heard a heavy sound, but he didn't dare change his aimlessly stare again. For a while they remained silent, just watching the activity. Eventually Edward blinked again, sighing at a sudden, strongly bitter taste in the back of his throat.

"You still alive?" Mustang's voice was just as raspy as before, but it sounded a little closer.

Ed might have smiled. He couldn't really tell; he couldn't feel his face. "Maybe."

Some of the previously distant figures were coming closer.

"Good."

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Yes, I think one more chapter should do it. Our heroes finally worked together! It took them the whole fic, but they finally managed it. No mass poisoning of the city, either, which is always a good thing. Standard typo disclaimer applies. Should be completed by tomorrow! (looks at clock.) Huh. It IS tomorrow. In that case . . .

Happy Easter, all!


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer in previous chapters. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

**One Week Later**

"Your task is simple."

Relatively speaking.

"Before each team is a glass dish containing an unknown compound. You have until the end of the day to determine its composition. You may use any tool or scientific method during your determination _except _alchemy. The first team to correctly identify the compound's makeup wins."

Not that it was really all that much of a mystery, anymore.

"Each team will be observed by a National Alchemist, to ensure there is no use of alchemy and to document your processes. These notes will later be reviewed in less advanced classes as methods available to alchemists to determine composition through physics and chemistry rather than alchemy. In essence, you gentlemen are writing next semester's class notes for me."

There was some good-natured grumbling.

"You may begin."

Edward Elric abandoned the lectern, heading for the only group of physicists and chemists without a State Alchemist. Al, the Tringums, and a still somewhat less-than-sparkling Alex Armstrong were present and accounted for, all grouped in the center of the room while still observing their assigned tables.

Which meant he was missing Franklin Sorn. The young alchemist had expressed specific interest in the class, and it hadn't really been a surprise –

If he didn't know for certain that the entire amplifier lay in the five glass Petri dishes in the room, he'd suspect Franklin of trying to nick some. That kid was after a Stone, he'd stake his life on it.

Still hadn't figured out why, though.

And for once, it looked like the Mechanical Alchemist had overslept.

It was eight o'clock on a bright and cheerful Friday morning, and the five groups of the Academy's best and brightest non-alchemist students were grouped around five lab benches, each with an equal amount of Bradley's amplifier. The alchemists in the room knew at least three-quarters of the components, now, thanks to both the Tringums' list of what had been in their portion of the amplifier, and, in a very odd turn of events, Aunt Pinako.

Though no small amount of credit was due Winry.

He smiled slightly, easing his right shoulder a little as it grew stiff. The new design had been as quickly made as his original alpha model had, and also in a hospital room. Winry was getting pretty good at whipping up armor on short notice, and for once she'd spared him the lecture about wrecking it.

Possibly because she'd been truly astonished at how well it had served him. Looking at the 'port' from the inside out, it really was amazing he hadn't lost his right arm again.

This new design put a good deal of the stress of the weight on his left shoulder rather than his right, through a complicated mesh of leather straps that crossed his chest and back. They were invisible beneath his loose shirts and vest, so long as he kept his collar buttoned, and it actually cradled his arm itself, supporting not only its total weight but also a good portion of the weight of his arm. Patterson still wasn't happy about it, and would have preferred Ed's arm to remain in a sling, but there was no way to explain why it was taking the famous Winry Rockbell so long to replace the more famous Fullmetal Alchemist's automail arm after his heroic fight against a marauding alchemist.

The memory of the week's worth of newspapers quickly wiped the smile right off his face.

He wandered over to the assembled group of alchemists as his table bent over their dish. The tools they'd given the scientists including a mortal and pestle, all manner of tubes, a gas burner, and a cabinet filled with the basic ingredients of chemistry; acids and bases in high concentrations, several buffers, a centrifuge, and a microscope. The physicists were there more to theorize what the roughened crystal might be, and the chemists to actually perform the experiments to check. Hopefully there'd be sharing of physics and chemistry among the participating students as well as good observations to take back to the alchemists.

"It's a little early into the exercise to look that evil," a quiet voice murmured, and Ed glanced up to see Russ studying him.

"He's thinking about the paper again," Al replied for him, giving his brother a dark look.

"What, the picture?"

Edward glared at Fletcher, who raised a placating hand. "Ed, it was obvious you were sitting down-"

"Or worse-"

He snorted, preferring to watch his table of suddenly busy scientists than listen to more consolation.

The damn picture. It was showing up in every paper, in some form or another. That photographer thought he'd captured such a good moment –

And to his credit, it was an excellent picture of Mustang. He hadn't noticed the flash or the bulb, with all the fires and lights otherwise flickering that night, so he'd been unaware that one of the newspaper reporters had been documenting the entire thing. Probably originally for a story on how the military was squashing their ability to freely print. But as the events that night had progressed, it had morphed into the heartwarming tale of their injured Prime Minister, hours after being poisoned by an assassin, determining a further hostile act against his city and nearly sacrificing himself to save them.

The picture, the one that was winning all the awards, the one he couldn't stop catching glimpses of, was a profile of Roy Mustang. Or rather it was of the Flame Alchemist, standing at attention, his poised right hand and transmutation circle readily visible. He was in the process of maintaining the fire that had blocked the path of those deadly newspapers, head squared, chin up, and eye intent on his work.

Bastard playboy.

Honestly, it was a good picture. It had certainly rallied the people around him, at any rate. He'd gone from possibly dead to saving the entire city by single-handedly figuring out the nefarious plot and going himself to stop it.

The problem was that he wasn't the only one in the picture.

The reporter had had the sense to stand back far enough that he'd captured the car as well. So he had the Prime Minister from the knees up, and about two feet behind him, the trunk of the car and the wheel well was visible.

And the top half of Edward's head.

Just enough that you could see his eyes. Luckily, it had been taken before he'd started blankly staring, so the eye that was visible appeared to be just as intent on the Prime Minister's work as he was. The problem was that you couldn't tell that his head was turned, or that he'd been kneeling.

He looked like he was about three feet tall.

Like a dwarf.

And Mustang had been the first person to point it out to him.

Things had gone downhill from there. Swiftly.

"Remind me to tell you what one of the students wrote on that photograph and stuffed under the office door-"

Edward pointedly ignored his brother.

An massive hand came to rest upon his right shoulder, and despite himself he glanced up to see the imposing face of Alex Louis Armstrong. Everyone was small compared to him, but having the enormous man standing so close was not making him feel any taller.

"Are you truly feeling well enough to remain here, Edward?"

He just inclined his head. "I'm good." Thanks in no small part to the Strong Arm Alchemist. He'd be dead, or at least without an arm, if not for the other man. He should have been asking that question, rather than being asked; Armstrong had only been released from the hospital yesterday. He remembered seeing the retired General Armstrong and his excessively tall wife in the ward hall. "How's your family taking the news?"

The news, of course, was a rumor that the Strong Arm Alchemist was very shortly going to be promoted from Brigadier General to Major General, for his selfless rescue of two National Alchemists and attempted rescue of the Prime Minister, almost at the cost of his own life. He had been too close to Craege Irving when he'd transmuted the battering rams, and that transmutation had taken advantage of the amplifier. That was how he'd managed such a huge alchemic reaction after getting Edward out of the concrete blender that should have been his coffin.

But the attack had badly overtaxed him. And it had always been thought that he simply wasn't as powerful as the other alchemists in his family had proven to be. That and his sentimentalism had been a large roadblock in his military career, at least until Mustang had gained sufficient rank.

He'd now proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was just as powerful as the previous Armstrongs, and had great courage to boot. And it was obvious that recognition meant a lot to him, because he suddenly burst into frighteningly loud tears, and the hand on Ed's left shoulder began to crush it.

"I have finally made my parents proud!" He kept his voice down to a dull roar, but still attracted the attention of every student in the room. "My dear older sister has even said she would come down from Briggs herself if it was so!"

Given how cute but frightening his younger sister was, Ed imagined his older sister must be a nightmare. "That's great," he managed, trying to ease his shoulder out of mortal peril. "You deserve it."

"Your words mean so much to me!"

Edward patted the vice-grip on his shoulder, noting that the other alchemists in the room, and now half the students, had turned back to their work. Even the non-alchemists in the Academy had grown used to Armstrong.

He'd tried to thank the gigantic man earlier that week, when he'd been released himself, but Armstrong wouldn't hear of it. He called it a duty and obligation, and noted that any of the other subordinates of Mustang's would have done the same. And he was right. Kain and Heymans had proved it.

They had yet to be released, but they were certainly coming around. His hypothesis had thankfully been wrong; while alchemy couldn't do much to stop the feedback from affecting regular people, it could still certainly be used to help heal their bodies. Subsequent visits from varying alchemists had located and stopped the internal bleeding, and both men were expected to make recoveries. Kain was still worse off, probably because he was smaller, and he had looked pale and wan on the bed. Breda, however, was feeling well enough to bitch that Patterson wouldn't let him drink beer, and tried to con every visitor that came through into playing a game of chess with him.

Mustang had spent an unknown amount of time doing just that.

Ed continued patting Armstrong's hand as the giant tried to get ahold of himself. The classroom door quietly closing attracted his attention, and a figure about his height met his eyes with a sheepish look.

Franklin Sorn crossed the room to join the group of alchemists, shrugging his light jacket off as he did so. He'd probably been running; sweat was dripping down his jaw, and he was both pale and a little out of breath. He also looked a little green.

Edward suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that the idiot hadn't been oversleeping after all.

"Glad you could make it," he said coolly, as the younger man gave him a careful nod. It occurred to him that was a very Mustang thing to say, which rankled him only a little. While his relationship with the Flame Alchemist was certainly different than it had been when he'd been a kid, and he sometimes wanted to strangle the asshole, Roy had done a few things right.

The way they'd interacted had been one of them.

Not that he'd admit to it if asked.

"I got held up," the Mechanical Alchemist offered, glancing around the room. "When did they start?"

That was probably as close to an apology as he was going to get. "A few minutes ago."

"You look quite pale, young man!" The tears were gone as if they had never been, and Alex thankfully released Edward to facilitate inspecting the much younger alchemist. "Are you too not feeling well?"

He'd be feeling dead, if not for Armstrong, and he seemed to know it. Some of the arrogance he'd seen in the boy when they'd first met had been worn off.

Of course, if Ed's suspicions were right, Franklin had spent the early morning out in the city, transmuting contaminated rubble, instead of sleeping. Anyone would be a little worn after that.

"I'm well. And yourself?"

Edward took advantage of the suddenly distracted Armstrong and moved closer to his brother and the Tringums. Four of the groups had decided to start with fire, to see if their unknown substance would burn.

The answer to that question was no, not really, no matter how hot you made it.

Pinako and Winry Rockbell had proven that already.

"Any word yet?"

Russell turned his head, and his answer was quiet. "They got back in last night. Apparently it was a complete success, but we still had to treat three of them."

They kept the information ambiguous on purpose. This class was not the best place to discuss what had been done with Craege Irving's remains.

"What about the box?"

Russell smiled, ever so slightly. "Commandeered by the Prime Minister."

Dammit.

It was an interesting story, one he was probably going to have to encrypt and keep in his records. Once the paper was successfully stopped, Edward had apparently decided that some sleep was in order. Thirty-eight consecutive hours of it, according to his physician. In that time, Winry had been summoned to Central, and he actually woke to find her trying the newly made armor on him.

She'd been fairly good about it, actually, all things considering. No tears; he'd probably slept through them. No screaming; he'd probably slept through that too. Just talk of business until he'd asked where the old automail had gone.

That hadn't gone over quite so well.

Once he'd assured her he wasn't blaming her product for his injury, she'd calmed down enough to listen. Pinako had actually come to Central as well, fearing the worst when they'd heard what happened to the city. Once he'd shared his theory that something the old man had added had caused the stuff to stop channeling significant amounts of alchemic energy, the two had gone to work.

Work, in their case, meant carefully melting his previous armor down to slag, to figure out what the old man had put into it.

They'd both warned him that the high temperatures could burn whatever it was to ash instantly, and they'd been right. Fortunately, multiple meltings and coolings eventually yielded a large enough amount of that ash to study. It was taken by the most chemistry-proficient physicists teaching at the Academy, and broken down much like the students were breaking down the amplifier now.

While they didn't know everything that had once been in the substance, they eventually decided to see if what they had actually still retained the non-transmutable properties it had started out with. They re-added it back to the metal alloy that had made up his armor, and the Rockbells had formed it into a small safe.

A small safe that was impervious to alchemy.

The first alchemist-proof safe.

And, oddly, a safe that partially absorbed some of the feedback coming from Craege's remains.

That had been the unexpected part. The old alchemist had made a compound with the apparent, sole purpose of resisting alchemic energy. It couldn't be transmuted. They had no idea how he made it, but the military uses were nearly infinite. The energy bonds that bound its molecules were excessively difficult to excite with alchemic energy. Edward suspected that it might actually be something Irving had traded for with the Gate, and then Al had postulated it would be awfully handy for the giant, black stone doors to be made of such a substance, considering the energy the Gate channeled and the beings that lived inside.

Then they'd uneasily agreed never to have a discussion like that directly before bed, ever again.

But it explained why the amplifier itself couldn't be used up by alchemy. The amplifier, split into five pieces in the very room they were standing in, could not be destroyed with alchemy because it couldn't itself be transmuted. No matter how much alchemists used it, it wouldn't ever be used itself as an ingredient in the transmutation.

So they had to break it down some other way.

Craege Irvings' remains had a similar problem; no alchemist could get near enough to them to break them down. Burying them was asking for them to contaminate the groundwater at some point, with the possible side effect of sickening anyone downstream for decades. They'd eventually decided to bury the box and the remains in the Great Desert, on the east side of Ishbal, in the hopes it would never be found.

That also seemed like a bad idea, but it was the best the military could come up with. So Ed had taken it upon himself to ask the faculty if they had any better ideas.

The teachers had leapt at the chance to do something alchemists couldn't; break down the remains into base elements, thus breaking the bonds causing the feedback. It was still dangerous work, even for them, but if Russell called it a success, it meant they had actually succeeded in breaking it down completely, instead of simply burying it.

And it made perfect sense that Mustang couldn't wait to get his hands on a safe that couldn't be transmuted open.

It had been made by the Rockbells, ever gear-heads, which probably meant it was relatively safe from mechanical engineers as well. Winry was probably not going to be happy that Mustang had ended up with it.

He wondered idly if they'd actually spent any time talking to each other while he'd slept. Obviously Mustang's extremely public demonstration that night had done more good than a hoarse radio address ever could have, and he'd managed it before the Speaker had even gotten a chance to address the country. The water panic was cancelled before anyone knew it had been a possibility, so after that Mustang's responsibilities had ended. Apparently at that point Patterson had finally gotten him knocked out, and as far as he knew, Roy had slept nearly as long as he had.

And since half the city didn't die, he'd been given a private room pretty quickly thereafter. So the probability Winry and Mustang had encountered each other was pretty low.

"How are those three?" He said he had to treat three of them, which meant they could have gotten as sick as Breda and Fuery had –

"They're fine." Russell raised his eyebrow at a sudden, brilliant green flash of light at his table, and scribbled something on a small pad he was holding. "A little sunburned." They'd done the work in the Great Desert, just in case they'd failed. That they'd made the journey so quickly told a good deal about how much time it had actually taken them to accomplish their task. Three days at most, giving a day's travel time there and back. "I think the total death toll from two days ago still stands."

Fifty-three. Fifty-three people had died from the fighting, the radiation and the poison Irving had planted. Five of those from the poison; the young man the editor of the paper had been holding had not been treated fast enough, and at the time they hadn't know how to treat him. Two more men died cleaning out the inkwells and printing machines. Eighteen died from radiation-related illnesses similar to what Breda and Kain went through. That left thirty citizens, soldiers, and alchemists killed by the fights with Craege Irving, counting Johann and his apprentice Cassie.

Fifty-three lives lost, thanks to Pride's plot to kill Dante.

Instead of fifty-three thousand.

It would never be acceptable, but it could have been much, much worse.

Edward stuffed his hands into his pockets, letting Franklin take over watching his table. His color had already improved, so he didn't have to worry about the younger man collapsing. Just getting some time and distance from the feedback seemed to be enough; there had been few long-term effects on the alchemists that had been exposed.

He wasn't sure if he was suffering from any of them. He hadn't attempted transmutation since that night.

Of course, he didn't need to. Not now, at any rate. He'd given it a little thought, two nights ago, but just the idea of gathering the energy together made his chest twinge warningly. Obviously he was going to have to try it at some point, but he was okay with waiting until next week. It didn't matter during the rest of the semester, obviously. He _might_ consider revising next semester's classes to include a single demonstration per class, but that was about as far as he was willing to concede. While perhaps demonstrative transmutation wasn't unnecessary, he still didn't feel the students required bells and whistles to keep them interested.

Again, the classroom door rattled closed, and this time Ed looked up to see the familiar, stern face of one Colonel Riza Hawkeye. She'd been back in service before he'd even woken, and was still the Prime Minister's Chief of Security. Behind her was a very familiar shape; the shorter of the two bodyguards that had been watching Roy's back when he'd returned.

Looked like he'd stolen them from the Speaker, then.

He didn't know how Riza had taken the news of what had happened during her sickness, but she looked as bright-eyed and serious as usual. She hadn't failed Mustang, but again, in her shoes, he would have felt as if he had.

He did, actually, even standing in his own shoes.

She gave him a subtle smile as she crossed the room, handing him a large portfolio. "This arrived at HQ in a collection of documents. I thought you would want the originals and copies."

He raised an eyebrow, accepting the manila folder and opening it. There was a letter, with the familiar emblem of the Post in the top right-hand corner. He scanned it; a standard apology, signed by none other than Edgar Massus, editor-in-chief.

So apparently he felt bad for not believing him.

Behind it were three large photographs.

The first was of him, in the act of tossing a bundle of newspapers onto the ground. It was hard to tell who he was; it was black and white and he was turned towards the truck, so it could have been any Amestrian soldier in a sling, sloppily unloading a delivery truck. In the background was Lieutenant Scholey, gun visible, and several of the paper employees, caught in the midst of angry shouts.

That would have been a hell of a picture to put on the front page.

The second wasn't nearly was well-taken; it was blurred, and hard to make out. It appeared to be a picture of one of the trucks driving down the street, and there was a uniform dodging out of the way. It was possibly him, but far too smeared to tell for certain.

The third and final picture, however, left no doubt as to the subject. It was in profile, like Mustang's had been, taken from his left side. He was crouched low on the street, hand pressed to the concrete, head up, apparently watching his transmutation. Probably when he'd been trying to stop the south-bound trucks, because he looked as if he was about to spring up at any moment and chase them down if he had to.

Edward stared at it a long time. That was what he looked like when he was transmuting?

It was . . . funny. His expression reminded him a good deal of Al's, when he watched his brother fight.

Embarrassed to be caught staring at a picture of himself, he immediately closed the folder, giving Hawkeye a curious look. "Why did you think I would want these?"

Her subtle smile was still present. "It's the only evidence in existence of you wearing a uniform."

He narrowed his eyes exaggeratedly, not sure if she was playing or seriously thought he was going to burn them. "Gee, thanks."

She inclined her head gracefully, then hesitated. "It was a good look for you."

. . . she was teasing him.

Wasn't she?

A little unsure of how to respond, he settled for clearing his throat. "Can you pass a message onto the Prime Minister for me, colonel?"

"That will depend on how many times it includes the word 'bastard'."

Yes. Definitely playing.

Edward grinned despite himself. "Take Sorn off cleanup detail. He's getting a little worn out."

The colonel glanced around the room, eventually finding the young man in conversation with Fletcher Tringum. Both were standing near one of the tables, observing one of the physicists adding a small amount of the ground crystal to distilled water.

"He isn't on detail, Edward. He was injured in the fighting, the same as you were."

Edward followed her gaze, watching the young man. He didn't seem to sense their gazes, intent on something Fletcher was saying, and he looked . . . fine. He looked completely recovered.

Clearly he'd been near the feedback, then. The idiot was probably trying to make up for the fact that he'd gotten taken out so quickly.

"Nevermind. I'll take care of it."

Hawkeye just inclined her head. "Parliament wants to speak with you regarding your statement." Her tone was very conversation.

Giving him a head's up that he was about to have an unpleasant conversation with someone waiting for the class to end, obviously.

"Thanks." He nodded, and she gave him a rare approving look before turning on her heels. He watched her cross the room, turning back towards his table in time to see a very vigorous reaction with the powdered crystal and a clear liquid he was willing to bet wasn't water.

Edward suddenly found himself hoping the next twenty-four hours weren't about to get as interesting as the last Friday's.

- x -

**Author's Notes**: Holy cow! Look! It's finished! Completed! Pay no attention to that slightly suspicious OC talking to Fletcher! That is not the sequel opening you're looking for! :eyes Silverfox to see if she's buying that.: I checked for typos, heaven knows there are still more. Once all are found, I will edit the chapters, and this present shall be done!

Thank you, Silverfox, for all of your kind words! I hope you liked it. And don't forget, Inkydoo is mostly responsible for the plot. Help me nag her into writing HER FMA epic. ; )

To everyone else, I hope you enjoyed, and Happy Easter!

If you enjoyed this fic and this universe, be sure to catch the prequel, Perfect After All, and the sequel Perfect After All: Price of the Past. There is also a collection of short prequel drabbles, fitting neatly into the established FMA anime universe, found under Perfect After All: Odds Without Ends.


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